Thorongil
by Siri2
Summary: Joint fic by Sarah/Hannah (Siri): Aragorn, incognito as Thorongil, is called to give aid at the borders of Rohan. While there he will discover old friends, face new enemies, and once again find himself fighting at the side of his best friend, Legolas.
1. Harnwe and Mavranor

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Well, here we are! A bit off schedule, but then again, when you take into account a broken laptop, several severe bouts of writer's block, and the distracting arrival of a new brother, Christmas, and TTT (not to mention Priceless Treasure and Erfier), it's really a wonder that we got it out THIS SOON! : ) Thank you for your patience, mellyn, it is much appreciated!!

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Thorongil

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Authors: 

Two of the 'Write' Sisters:

Sarah (the bookish, plausibility-mad realist) 

and Hannah (Siri) (the crazy, starry-eyed visionary)

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E-mail: thewritesisters3@hotmail.com

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Rating: PG-13 for angst, character death (two of them, but we won't tell you who), some character-torture, 'epic battle scenes' (hardy har har), and tense situations

Note: THIS IS UTTERLY NON-SLASH!!! *ahem*

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Spoilers: Bitty ones for Cassia and Siobhan's Mellon Chronicles and for The Two Towers, but otherwise, none.

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Background: Much of our background for this story is based on Cassia and Siobhan's Mellon Chronicles. You can read their stories under Cassia's name here on ff.net, or else on their site: www.aragorn-legolas.5u.com Also, though you don't have to, you may want to read our last story: Death or Despair, since we will be mentioning several situations and characters from it in this. : )

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Background (Tolkien): Two of the premises in our story are 1. That Aragorn was the adopted son of Elrond, and therefore brother to Elrond's sons, Elladan and Elrohir, and 2. That Aragorn and Legolas were good friends prior to the Fellowship of the Ring. 

The first of these is true, according to Tolkien. Aragorn *was* taken to Elrond's house after the death of his father and raised there, as the elven lord's foster son, under the name of Estel, and the idea that he, Elladan, and Elrohir were close is implied by that arrangement. 

The second of these is conjecture, based mostly upon parts of the movie (particularly Legolas' defense of Aragorn during the Council of Elrond), but almost not at all on anything in the books. However, it is not denied either, so I hope you will enjoy the possibility, even if it cannot be considered fact! 

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Important Disclaimers: Most of this story was written before Two Towers came out, and so our descriptions of certain places (particularly Edoras) do not match what you saw in the films. Also: very little information (that we could find in the resources available to us) is given about Aragorn's errantries in Gondor and Rohan, so we have taken the liberty of making most of it up ourselves. We hope you will enjoy our interpretation, even if it doesn't match yours! : )

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Boring Disclaimer: All recognizable characters (but two), and places in this fic do not belong to us, but are rather the creation of one of the most incredible authors of all time: J.R.R. Tolkien. Raniaen and Trelan are the creations of Cassia and Sio, and used with permission. All other characters and places are ours. We have no permission to use Tolkien's characters and places, but are not being paid for our work either. : )

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Extra Disclaimer For Our Old Readers: This fic is a little slower than our last one to start out, and a little more complicated as you go. While Death or Despair was like FOTR in a way (*very* linear), this one bounces around a lot more (sorta like TTT), and has probably five or six times the number of characters. We hope you enjoy it as much as the last, for we have tried to put the same amount of work/adventure/angst/detail/etc. (not to mention a number of other things we didn't have in D or D), but we felt we should alert you from square one: it is most certainly different. : )

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Feedback: We welcome your opinions, one and all, and the more the better! A couple of notes though: please no swearing (for any reason), and no flaming. Also, literary critiquing is welcome (grammar, etc.) and we will be sure to take note of it for the future, but just so you know: it is unlikely we will be re-editing this story as we post. Thanks! : )

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Summary: Another joint fic By Sarah and Hannah (Siri) (Siri): Aragorn, incognito as Thorongil, is called to give aid at the borders of Rohan. While there he will discover old friends, face new enemies, and once again find himself fighting at the side of his best friend, Legolas. //non-slash//

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In Honor Of: _All the reviewers who made posting Death or Despair so much fun for us, and encouraged us to write another! Thanks guys! : )_

and 

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Chloe, as ever, for urging us on, writing Erfier (oh my goodness, YES), joining us in our goofy reveries, and of course: for that parodied Harry Potter song about Legolas you left on Sarah's laptop. You will never cease to shock, amaze and amuse us. : )

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Text: //thoughts//, *italics*

This just keeps getting longer and longer, doesn't it…? 

Well, don't worry: we'll shut up now. ; )

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Chapter 1

Harnwe and Mavranor

A filthy breeze took the edge of the litter's curtain and played with it, leaking beneath to the woman inside, who didn't seem to notice. Mavranor shifted, her scarlet dress moving like fiery water as she raised a tanned finger to pull the coverings aside and look out. The air was brittle and caught at the lungs in a chill way, but the backs of the litter bearers were coated with a gray slick of sweat mixed with ash, and their faces were tired. 

On all sides of the brilliantly gilded couch there came the noise of feet tramping steadily northwards, and the ever-present ground shaking booms of the mû makil as their trunk-like limbs crushed the ground beneath them, leaving outlines even in stone. There was a clatter of weaponry, and the lower rumble of the carts belonging to her husband's subjects, overlaid by a faint screeching far above from the carrion birds who still resided over the mountains to their right. Mavranor suppressed a shiver that was lingering by her chilled feet; once the Haradrim had been the allies of the Dark Lord, but now he had been defeated, had fled — his magnificent fortress had crumbled, and there was no longer any welcome in his mountains for the Southron queen's people. Exhaling her discomfort, Mavranor's black eyes refocused solidly on the traveling mass around her. It made no difference what did or did not lurk beyond the Ephel Dú ath in these days, for the mighty Haradrim were not tarrying before them, nor passing within. A smile of anticipation and triumph crossed Mavranor's reddened lips as her mind dwelt lovingly on the days that had led to their small kingdom's mass exodus.

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"Muindor." Harnwe spat his brother's name like a curse and brought his fist down like a hammer on the oak table, shivering the floor upon which it stood. Yet his anger was not abated with the physical contact, and with a cry of bitterest rage, he caught up his spear and flung it towards the doorway where it struck the doorframe and stayed, the shaft quivering, it's iron head buried half it's length in the hard beams.

"An inch closer, and you would have done me in, my lord," came the soft tones of a woman from just outside the room.

Harnwe straightened, a look of concern flitting briefly across his face as his wife entered, her raven hair flowing about her waist in straight waves, her gown rustling softly about her ankles. "I did not know you were there," he growled unnecessarily, his dark brows connecting again. "You would do well to announce your presence in the future, woman—"

He was cut off by her laughter, "Ah yes," she nodded, her black eyes glittering with mirth, "for it is frequently the custom of kings to greet their queens in such a manner, and it would be ill indeed were the husband to slay the better half of himself."

She had the satisfaction of seeing his brow smooth slightly, but he was obviously still upset. "'Queen'," he muttered, "'King' — temporary titles for those with strength. But once the scimitar is rusted, and the shield bent, where is the monarch to spend his dying years? In the mud with the common people, tending livestock?"

"My lord refers to the encroachment of his brother." It wasn't a question.

"Every day he seizes a little more of what I have taken with such labor. Was it he who slew Gurthuwe in combat before his own halls and took command of all his property? Was it he who fooled Meidh into surrendering her father's lands without a spear thrust? Nay, it was not, yet he presumes to lay claim to it, as if it were his own."

"You have much strength yet," Mavranor reminded him firmly, but he brushed her off.

"Strength is always a comparison. He has many hundreds of men more than I, and his mûmakil could cover a thousand hills —"

"You exaggerate, my—"

"I EXAGERATE NOTHING!" Harnwe barked, his words hitting his wife like a slap in the face. She stared at him, her dark eyes patient, waiting, and slowly his shoulders slumped in frustration. "My own," he murmured the endearment, "we are diminishing, and I see no way to halt it. Aye, we will fight to the death, but be assured: it will be *our* death, and not Muindor's. Even if by such a fight were we to gain back what we have lost, it would be small comfort if we were not alive to enjoy it."

For a while there was silence in the stone room; the burning sun, so much nearer Middle Earth in the south, was setting out the window, and it's blood red rays coated the room in a sudden splendor, covering the walls with flames and setting alight a sudden spark in the queen's eyes.

"Will you now," she asked, her voice hard and slow, "hear my advice?"

He looked at her dully, "Advice?"

"Aye, advice, or is it your opinion that a woman who could bear you no children is also incapable of intelligence! We will neither stay, nor fight. We will leave!"

Harnwe turned, leaning against the table, his arms folded as he watched his wife glare at him; he had always loved her best when she was angry. "And where do we propose we go, oh lady of the Haradrim?" There was a blatant sarcasm in his tone as he egged her on.

In answer she crossed the room to a small chest and flung it open, pulling from the bottom an ancient roll of parchment and spreading it carefully on the table. Harnwe gazed upon it with interest, noting that it was even older than he had first thought — almost beyond count of years — and wondering where his spouse had come by it, since the Haradrim were not a people of writing, and seldom drew maps, or penned even their own histories.

"A stunning answer, but you have lost your king in the rush to prove yourself." He prodded her, smiling inwardly as she flushed.

"There." She snapped, bringing her finger down upon a wide open space in roughly the center. The script that labeled it was foreign to him, and even the usual landmarks that he thought he recognized somehow seemed different, but to his nearest estimation, it appeared to be north of them by some distance, further even than Mordor. Mavranor began to explain almost eagerly now, "The language is that of the elves," she ignored his frown, "but I finally secured a translation, and the map describes this land as a beautiful garden of flowering trees, and fruit-bearing plants. It is large and naught guards it but trees."

Harnwe stared at her, "Trees?"

She nodded, "They walk the land like men, and are strong indeed, but merely farmers. And surely *you* are capable of defeating *farmers*, my lord." She finished, with just the hint of a challenge in her voice.

The king stood, ready to argue, and yet the arguments deteriorated. He had long desired to leave the scorching lands of his birth, and had wasted many men attempting to wrest from Gondor a little of that green land which they had in such abundance. But here? Gondor was too far south to control this place, no matter how old the map, and a piece of land that size could be easily taken by the troops he still had. They could all make their way north, close to the mountains of Mordor, where the cowards of Gondor seldom trod. Thus they could avoid attack from that quarter, allowing them to spring upon whomever now lived in this marvelous place unawares. And if the inhabitants did not surrender willingly…

The silence in the room had grown long as he pondered his strategy, wondering too if there was gold to be found anywhere in this new land, and suddenly he realized that his wife was waiting for his verdict upon her plan. Knowing a king must decide his own course, he said distantly, "I shall consider it."

But in her smile, he could see that he was not the only one who knew his decision.

"My own," a voice called down from above the litter, pulling Mavranor from her thoughts.

"Yes my lord?" She responded, craning her neck back to catch a glimpse of her husband on his towering mûmak, only her long experience with the mammoth creatures preventing her from flinching at each footfall.

"You should not expose yourself to this wind." He smiled, his white teeth brilliant against his browned skin, his bearing assured and even amused, "I would not have you loose your complexion for all the gold I possess."

Though she knew it was a lie, she sent a kiss towards him and obediently closed the curtain once again. Leaning back against her cushions, she closed her eyes to rest, but behind the lids, the mind was still working, even in sleep.

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"So my brother has taken his shrew and fled," Muindor remarked, tipping his goblet for a drink, and laughing at the ease of his most recent conquest. He was standing in his brother's main hall — deserted except for himself and his captain of war — and gazing about at the largely bare rooms, chuckling to himself as his men searched the area for any remaining residents. Truth be told, it was merely a half victory, for but few of the inhabitants of the lands remained for him to rule. But the feud with his younger brother had been long and bitter, and the old resentment, now ended, added fresh sweetness to his mead.

"My lord," Captain Penna announced at his side, "though empty of inhabitants, you have gained a great many abandoned possessions, and, of course, the land and houses. They will bring you countless riches."

"Aye," the king nodded idly, admiring the scarlet hangings with his brother's emblem on them and wondering if it could be altered to show his own crest instead, "it should do well to fund my next attack, which is all I really desired from it."

Penna knew this to be an utter lie: revenge was what the king had wanted — but he had not gained his position merely by fighting well. "And will you now tell me where you next plan to show your military prowess?" His question was flattering out of habit.

Muindor drank the last of his mead and smiled afresh, his dark eyes glittering with the battle love of the Southrons. "Gondor."

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TBC…


	2. Thorongil of Gondor

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Sarah here! *glances around* Oooh! Readers! 

I'm suffering from a bad case of anxiousness here. To be perfectly honest: Hannah and I weren't sure in the end if this was as good as our first one (and we were rather inclined to think that it wasn't), so I REALLY hope you aren't disappointed… *goes off to bite fingernails and smile distractedly at everyone*

Starfleet Hobbit: *blushes* Thanks! I'm glad you approve; we were rather afraid the beginning might be considered a little, erm, boring.

None: Second, and welcome! I'm happy you've already read D or D; it will come in handy.

phoenixqueen: Cool plot idea!! Unfortunately, it's not ours; mostly just because Hobbiton is too far west (on the other side of the Misty Mountains, and so on) for Harnwe and Mavranor to reach; lucky hobbits! As for what we *are* doing, and how we plan to do it, you'll just have to wait and see! ; )

Elwen: Sorry we kept you waiting! We will do our best to make amends. : )

Pupulupk: Hannah and I don't post WIPs; they make us nervous that we won't make our deadlines (and we have enough trouble doing that when all we have to remember is 'Get Online And Post')! *glows* Thanks for the praise and the slot on your list!

Larus: *hugs Larus* No, please, don't go!! Any review longer than 'good job. post more.' is extraordinarily prized, no matter how long you choose to ramble, or on what subjects! In fact, the more you ramble, the more we're likely to understand it; yes, those were our reviews, yes, they are long, but much of their contents (if you ever care to read a couple) you will find are a peculiar conglomeration of private jokes, weird tangents, and utter drivel, built up over years of reviewing Cassia's and Sio's stuff and just living our bizarre lives in general… ; ) We are proud to be completely NUTS, yessiree! *g* We will, of course, pass on your request to Chloe (backed up with our own!) as well as say 'hi', and we'll see if that gets us Nefredal any quicker! If not: there's always your standard 'reader mob'… : D

Halo: Calm down! I'm glad you're liking it, but we'd rather avoid people passing out on this thread… ; )

e: BETTER?! WoW. Gee, thanks! And I'm glad you liked that POV; we kind of went out on a limb there and weren't sure if many people would be interested in the villains so early on… *grins* Guess we needn't have worried! By the by: we're going to have to be careful around you -- you think like we do. ; ) Read on and you'll find out how exactly!

Aislynn: Your wish is granted! *produces Thorongil from under a bed sheet* And I'm practically in tingles over your mention of the Brown Lands!!! We were in a bit of a muddle -- trying to decide whether we needed to explain more thoroughly where they were headed. Not only that: you paid a compliment to our Female Villain! *hugs Aislynn* Thank you so much! *tries to picture Mavranor as a Mary Sue* Yuk. No, don't worry. I can safely tell you now: she never falls in love with any of the good guys. As it happens, she is (in fact) quite devoted to her own husband, in spite of their warped marriage life and selfish hobbies… : P

Gwyn: You're absolutely right, but what bad guy has ever listened to good advice? *sighs over the general depravity of Evil Villains* As for elf torture, um… we'll see if we're insured for that and get back to you, kay? : D

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Thorongil

By Sarah and Hannah (Siri)

(disclaimers, explanations, and summaries 

available at the top of chapter 1)

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Chapter 2

Thorongil of Gondor

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"I have seen the white city."

— _Aragorn, The Fellowship of the Ring_

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The wall rose high and smooth on the inner ring of the white city, like a sheet of pure ice and nearly as chill in the early morning. The sun was beginning to leak over the eastern hills, accompanying a light wind that pulled at the sentries' hair, causing two of them to narrow their eyes against it. This far into the city very few guards were necessary, but a company was kept on duty at each ring nevertheless, for the Steward was wary of taking chances in these darkening days.

"A wretched night, as cold as Angmar in winter," Duurben observed, drawing his dark cloak close about him. "And why we have been assigned the most protected post, I can scarce understand! Truly, we have each quitted ourselves very well on the battle fields before now, and you more than any of us, Captain."

The dark haired man next to him raised his eyebrows slightly as his blue eyes continued to gaze out across the city below and the land beyond. "I thank you for your trust in my abilities, Duurben, but why this sudden desire for extra work? Are you growing weary of the days?"

Duurben frowned, "It is easy to grow weary while surrounded with only stone. Understand, I have only been a guard of the city for a few years, and before this I lived in one of the outer forts, amongst the trees and the grass. Before even then, when I was a boy, we lived long in Ithilien, right until the flames rose again in Orodruin and drove us hither — and we were the last to leave." His eyes fell with loss, "That was thirteen years ago, but I still remember the leaves in the morning… Such things men take for granted until they are deprived of them, and given only *that* for scenery." Here he cast a disgusted hand outwards, indicating the lowering black horizon line, still dark even under the rising sun. "But you probably don't understand." He added, noting his captain's silence, and realizing this conversation was likely not permitted between a captain of Gondor and a lowly guard.

However, the captain had never seemed to note the difference in station when he conversed with his men, and now there was a faint look of sorrow in his bright eyes, even though he still kept them firmly fixed on the task at hand, "No," he whispered, "I understand quite well."

There was such a longing in his tone that it made Duurben pause in the middle of his misery to look at him afresh. The man had a weathered profile, shoulder length dark hair that often grew unkempt, sharp blue eyes, and a strange, silent way of walking. Dressed in the livery of the tower of guard, there was yet something in his manner and way of speech that set him apart, and it made him somewhat of a curiosity, even amongst the other foreign soldiers that Ecthelion II had taken into his service.

It had long been wondered amongst the eighth company where their captain had come from, but little information was available. They knew he had previously served King Thengel of Rohan for seven years — though he was not native to that land — and, though not unsocial, was not inclined to speak of himself any further than that. This fresh indication of emotion, and of a past more distant than a mere half a dozen years back, sparked Duurben's interest and he ventured, "Captain?"

But the captain's expression had turned pleasant again, and he made a faint shrugging motion, "Never mind."

Faint frustration pulled at the sentry at the sheer silence of the man in front of him, and his habitual frown deepened, but he did not inquire further.

Catching sight of his subordinate's expression, the captain actually chuckled, "Have I done something to offend thee? I must say your expression chills me greatly, and I feel sure it could bring frost to even the Haradrim!" 

"No, of course not, Captain," Duurben replied quickly, hiding his disappointment, as a thoughtful expression crossed his face, "but it is odd that you should mention the Southrons."

"Odd? How?"

"There is word from the scouts in Ithilien that a large group of such people were seen passing, with their weaponry and war beasts, towards the north."

The captain's brow creased, "That could well be of serious note. Do you know if anything has been suggested to halt them?"

Duurben shook his head, "Nay, for they were traveling quite close to the Mordor, and we seldom go that way unless need demands it."

"Still," the captain's brow creased, "it would seem that they are returning to the Dark Lord's old haunts. It is an uneasy time in which to be living, with the mountain once more in flames, and Dol Guldor suddenly abandoned, and old servants making their way back to their former places of labor. That is, unless they are bound for the Brown Lands." There was a barest hint of humor in his tone, "Perhaps instead of visiting destruction upon us, they intend to turn to agriculture, and perhaps bring back the dead glory of the Entwives and their paradise on earth."

Duurben stared at his captain in slight bewilderment, "The Ent *whats*?" It was not the first time his superior had revealed knowledge of things known only by the scholars in Minas Tirith.

The captain was not afforded time to answer, however, as a voice suddenly called from the top of the steps that led up to the battlements, "Captain Thorongil?" The captain turned, nodding gravely to the messenger.

"Yes?"

"Captain Baranor is waiting below with his company. He says you are being relieved a few hours early."

Thorongil nodded, accepting the instructions without question, and turned from the wall, the wind pushing his dark hair into his face. "Very well, I shall collect the men."

The messenger shook his head, "Sir, you are to have your lieutenant bring the men down, as the Steward wishes to speak with you."

"Ah, I see." There was no flicker of surprise. "Then I shall leave them to you, Duurben, and please be sure they get something to warm them from the cellars. It has been a chill night, has it not?"

The flicker of what could have been a smile touched Duurben's lips and he nodded, placing his hand upon his breast and inclining his head, "Of course, Captain."

With a similar gesture of farewell, Thorongil departed, moving quickly down the wall and through the citadel to The Court of the Fountain. Here he did not pause, though his eyes grew gray with pity as his glance fell upon the wasting tree, still lying in the water, a silent tribute to days that were long dead. Passing the guard at the door of the hall with a nod, he entered between the rows of stone kings, and his eyes flicked first to the ornate throne on the dais in the center of the room, then down further to the Steward's seat at the foot of the dais. The Steward was not sitting there at present, but a moment later he emerged from a smaller room off to the right, his expression grave.

"Captain Thorongil," He nodded as the captain bowed.

"You sent for me, my lord." Thorongil replied respectfully.

"Yes. Come with me." Ecthelion beckoned and they entered the smaller room: an alcove crowded with rolls of parchment, maps, and stacks of letters, yet still maintaining the same sense of order and control that defined the Steward's rule. Laid out over top of a map of the southeastern border of Gondor was a communiqué which Ecthelion indicated with a brief gesture. "One of our outposts have reported that Muindor, one the more influential of the Haradrim kings, has been moving steadily towards our borders and may presently engage us in yet another struggle over our lands."

"Have they attacked yet?" Thorongil inquired, looking at the map to refamiliarize himself with the area in question.

"No, but they have begun training their beasts and manufacturing armor."

"Then there is a chance we are not their intended targets," Thorongil murmured, rather doubtfully.

Ecthelion's raised eyebrow could almost be heard in the silence and Thorongil sighed, just audibly, shaking his head; he too understood how ridiculous that statement sounded.

"Do you suppose that the large group traveling north is part of Muindor's plans?" He asked instead.

Ecthelion's other eyebrow rose, "I sometimes wonder if there is not a bit of elf or wizard about you — no, I will not ask by what sources you heard of that. Later reports indicated, however, that they had taken a more easterly direction through the Ephel Dú ath, and it seems to me more likely that they will turn towards the Brown Lands and the Sea of Rhû n." Catching sight of Thorongil's worried expression, he added, "I have taken the precaution of sending a messenger towards Edoras, in case my judgment should prove wrong."

The two lapsed into thought as they gazed at the map. Thorongil's memory traveled rapidly over the last invasion by Muindor's brother only a year ago and what it had cost Gondor and himself, and there was silence in the room. A silence which was broken abruptly by a voice from the doorway.

"Father?"

The figure standing there was older than Thorongil by only a year, were the truth known, but he looked a good deal older: with dark hair similar to both the captain's and his father's, pale skin, and an intelligent face. His bearing spoke of his expectations to rule in his sire's stead one day, as well as his readiness to fill the office aptly.

"Denethor," Ecthelion greeted his son, "I was just apprising Captain Thorongil of our newest troubles in the south."

"Yes, of course, father." Denethor's dark eyes flicked first to Thorongil — who inclined his head respectfully — and then to the map, and then to his father. "You knew I intended to lead the army myself, did you not?" His words were smooth and firmly courteous.

"I knew it well, and the plan is unaltered." The corners of Denethor's eyes relaxed slightly. "However, I intend for Thorongil to accompany you with certain men of his company, and felt it wise for another of the captains to clearly understand the situation before departure. Leaving such information in the head of only one man often proves foolhardy when the winds of fortune blow amiss, and though he has not served me long, Thorongil has proved himself both worthy of my trust and equal to surviving much danger without harm." Ecthelion turned to the back wall, hunting amongst his personal selection of archives for some scroll or other, and so missed the strange look that crossed his son's face at that moment: a silent flattening of the sharp eyes, and writhing of the mouth that quickly disappeared again when the Steward turned back around.

"Perhaps I shall stay for the review as well, my lord." Denethor murmured, coming fully into the room to stand beside Thorongil, "After all, it is dangerous for those in authority to forget what they must know, 'should the winds of fortune blow amiss'."

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Thorongil's step was unusually heavy as he trod the familiar path back to his lodgings. It had escaped the Steward's notice, but the captain had spent the previous two days inspecting the outer workings, then had remained on watch with his company throughout the night, and then would have gone gratefully to bed in the morning, were it not for the several hours of planning that were necessary to protect their borders against their longtime enemies in the south. This last had been especially tiring, for while he greatly respected both the Steward and his son, he had discovered that the latter held some secret dislike for him. And a morning spent in a room with someone who was forever glancing suspiciously at him darkened his mood and drained away his energy even more rapidly than fighting. For a moment he tried again to fathom the reason for the animosity; it was almost as if Denethor knew somehow that — but as had often happened before, he gave it up as soon as his head fell on his pillow.

"Captain?"

A voice was calling from somewhere and Thorongil groaned silently, guessing from the way his body felt that his sleep had been cut far too short. Determinedly, he forced his eyelids upwards and caught sight of Duurben standing over him, his expression urgent. "Captain, a messenger brought word that one of our southern outposts have been breached, and it has been said a small company may be within our borders amongst the villages there. The Steward gave orders that we should march at once, rather than wait until tomorrow morning, and Lord Denethor bade me wake you."

Feeling unutterable things, but keeping it from his face, Thorongil worked himself up on his elbows. "Thank you, Duurben. As soon as I am dressed I will join you."

"Sir," Duurben sounded a little embarrassed to be speaking thus, "you already *are* dressed."

Thorongil noticed for the first time that he had fallen asleep while still in his gear and made a mild face, "Old habit. Never mind, I shall come with you now."

And taking up his traveling pack and weapons, he followed his subordinate downstairs. If he had any talent for predicting, he was afraid this would not be an easy fight.

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It was not the first message Erfiren had delivered, but it was the first he had taken all the way to Rohan. The land of the horse lords was said to be wild and windswept, and there was a spark of adventure in the young messenger's eyes as he left the familiar paths behind and set his horse galloping across the fields. An occasional head rose from the grain to watch him pass, as horses were not common in Gondor, but they soon returned to their work. It was cloudy and there was much to be done before the coming storm.

It was drifting on towards evening when the first drops of rain began to fall, and by nightfall the rain was coming down in a deluge that turned the paths to mud and hid trees from view. A crack of lightening slit the sky from east to west, lighting the road far enough for Erfiren to know that his next stop was no where in sight, and neither was any other habitation. And then the horse spooked. Throwing its head back, it neighed wildly, turning sharply to the side and bolting into the woods, trying to escape the dreadful fire from heaven and taking his rider with him.

In his sudden need to quiet the horse and dodge the swiping branches, Erfiren failed to notice when the message pouch beneath his saddle was suddenly pulled from him by a bramble covered bush and left far behind, its contents spilled on the muddy ground.

As the rain pounded down, the ink on the thick parchment began to run and blend until only a few words were legible: _K..ng Thengel….. u..gent warn… Southr..ns… past your west..n border… be watchf…_

****

TBC…


	3. Son of Thranduil, Son of Maen

****

*Sarah comes in, her face wreathed in smiles (which is an odd phrase, if you think about it…)* Oh, I'm SOOO glad you are liking it so far!

EVERYONE: But, um, I feel I really ought to tell you something… *gets sheepish expression of a girl with her hand caught in the cookie jar* Our beginning is a little misleading: _not much of this fic takes place in Gondor_. *smiles guiltily and pulls hand out of cookie jar* But I hope you enjoy what we have!

ALSO: POSTING! We hope to post every other day, like on our last fic, *but*, like on our last fic, we will probably forget/not be available/etc. at times. We hope you will forgive our tardiness when it arises, and for our part we shall try our best not to leave you too long! As for 'when' during the day… Um. We have no idea. : )

fliewatuet: Welcome, and thank you so much! *beams over all the details fliewatuet listed* You noticed! Sometimes we wonder if we're being too subtle for our own good, and whether anybody will ever realize what we were trying to put across… Either we did better than we thought, you are a very observant reader, or all of the above (and I'm pretty sure it's the latter)! : )

Starfleet Hobbit: *bows* Thankyouver'much! And Denethor the grumpy gets his own applause! I'm sure he's very happy. Um, as happy as he ever gets. ; )

Gwyn: Not much politics, but I think we have some intrigue in here… *hunts around a bit* Hm, well I'm pretty sure we do, and as for whether it's brilliant, I guess we'll have to see what *you* think! Anyway, don't worry, personal is just around the bend here. : )

Lina: Thank you, thank you!! We are pleased to have Ara-Thorongil's sworn protector in our audience once again! *laughs* Well do we recall your attempts to do away with Mornaeg! Chloe read us most of them, in fact, and we've seen you going for Dyryn's throat on Cassia/Sio's thread as well. *bows to Eomer* Hail and well met, oh champion of Lina-restrainers! I must say, you're doing a pretty good job, even if you *haven't* ever managed to ride south… Some things are more important, I suppose, like Denethor keeping all his teeth, or Mavranor and Harnwe surviving so that they can-- whoopsie, that's classified! ; )

Chloe: *collapses off her chair with laughter* You are obviously out for revenge for all my Sarah Snicket reviews; there is NO WAY I'll be able to tell you how much I laughed-at/snorted-through/appreciated your feedback! Phooey. Will it do to tell you that you quoted one of my favorite lines, complimented me on vocabulary that (after reading some REAL Tolkien recently) I was none too sure about, praised our portrayal of our favorite ranger, and all around boosted my confidence so high that *begins to float towards the ceiling* I'm not sure if I'll be able to get down to post again…. ; ) What's more, you called me 'subtle', and ultimately I liked it so much, I've decided I won't kick Stitch off the thread! *smiles brightly* 

Oh yeah, and 'ohana'? It means 'family'. 'Family' means: 'nobody gets killed for anything dreadful they may write later on down the line'. In case you were curious. : P

Evenstar: Thanks! I like reading that time period myself. ; D

sabercrazy: *hug* You could pep up a stone troll! Thank you SO much for all that praise; feedback seriously makes our day! As for the rest… *watches saber do the caffienated elf bounce* My goodness. Be careful you don't bump yourself on anything! ; )

e: *innocent look of astonishment* Of *course* not! Why, if the message got to Thengel, then what fun would be left? As for Denethor and Aragorn: fortunately/unfortunately, they never actually reach the throwing-gloves-in-each-other's-faces stage. Other than that, you'll just have to see. : ) And Legolas? You're going to keep pestering us until we tell you? *groan* Ho boy. Well, sorry. Super secret and all that. We'll tell you as soon as we can! ; )

None: Funny, isn't it? With all the time Aragorn spends around immortal folk, it gets easy to forget that he's pretty old in his own right. ; ) Keep reading and who knows when that elf might appear! As for when he meets up with Thorongil… *winning and completely silent smile*

RainyDayz: *blushes up to the roots of her hair* Golly, hanta le! Wow. And a movie, you think? Well, I doubt it, but maybe Hannah can do something with it; she's a much better actress than I. ; ) 

Elwen: Thanks! And here's the next post… : )

Larus: *blushes* Yes, well, we actually considered 'The Inferiority Complex Sisters' as our group name, but it just wasn't as catchy. Mostly: it's the product of reading too much stuff from people who *really* know what they're doing (Tolkien, Lewis, Cassia/Sio, etc. ; ). We feel sure that, with all that other stuff out there, we are sure to disappoint. Thank you for your reassurances! We will attempt to keep our flights of anxiety to ourselves for your sake… Alas, poor Erfiren! His role is limited and never will he be able to live down this stain on his two-dimensional character. Fortunately, you're right: Ecthelion is not a 'shoot the messenger' type; even if he were, you never get a chance to find out. And oopsie! I don't think we ever mentioned the time period, even if you had read the beginning thingy… But yeah, this is pre-FOTR, and Thorongil is an alias Aragorn took so that he could travel without being recognized. : )

Hiro-tyre: Thank you! We are pleased beyond words when people (a) notice and (b) appreciate our attempts at subtlety. It comes of not liking it when writers insult their readers intelligence by explaining things too thoroughly. Towards that end, we may have erred with the message (by making it so obvious), but you'll be happy to know: the message is never retrieved or otherwise brought back in to the plot. It's sole reason for existing in this fic is to point out that Gondor *did* attempt to warn it's allies, and to help *you guys* understand that Rohan has no warning (where have I heard that before…?). Erfiren doesn't even get another scene, poor guy!

We're considering starting up an answering service to pass on all these threats/requests to our sister… Don't worry, she's working on it! ; )

Our response section is getting longer…. *grins*

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Thorongil

By Sarah and Hannah (Siri)

(disclaimers, explanations, and summaries 

available at the top of chapter 1)

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Chapter 3

Son of Thranduil, Son of Maen

The breeze rose up from the distance and blew carelessly through grass and heather; the sound of trees rustling could be plainly heard and leaves cascaded towards the ground lazily, landing soundlessly upon the chill autumnal earth. Over this the sound of running water was heard, a tributary flowing endlessly and undisturbed towards the Anduin. 

Suddenly there was a light penetration in the quiet sounds; those who heard it may have thought it was only another leaf, but in fact, slight as they were, the sounds that now approached were footsteps. The light footsteps of elves.

"Step lively, Meldir, for it grows dark," one chided softly.

"My lord, if we may not travel at night we are a sad disappointment to our race indeed." Meldir responded with a smile. "I do not believe the darkness should hinder our travel."

"I prefer not to travel in shadows in either case; there it is that foul things oft dare to tread." The other answered simply. "After all, Meldir, you ought to recall the last excursion in which we participated at the dead of night; a broken ankle and wolves figured rather prominently in it, if my own memory serves me."

Meldir looked hurt and frowned at his companion. "But my lord, grant me this at least: it was not *my* suggestion to investigate the moanings in the glade."

The other elf opened his mouth to speak a retort then closed it once more. "But it does not do to bicker, friend." 

Meldir laughed heartily at his companion's response. "We will not speak of it again, Prince Legolas."

Legolas shook his head in mirth. "As you say. And I will repeat: step lively, Meldir, for it grows dark."

Legolas smiled at the expression on Meldir's face and the two continued their silent travel toward the great river's banks in the distance. 

Legolas had known Meldir since childhood, as Meldir's father, Maen, was a great warrior and trusted advisor in King Thranduil's courts. Though Meldir had never been as close a friend as Raniean and Trelan, and certainly not so close as Legolas' friend Estel — whom the elf had not seen in some time — still, as Legolas had spent more time with him over the last few years, he had come to appreciate the other as an loyal companion, a clear thinker, and a good friend.

Long now the two had been traveling from Mirkwood to Lothlórien with a message from Thranduil to Celeborn — never before had Legolas traveled to that fair wood and he was gladdened in his heart to be the one chosen now — but the errand was not urgent, and they were not much wearied, for they had gone slowly. In truth, Legolas' first inclination had been to travel alone, but Meldir's presence had been required as bodyguard, and though Legolas sighed that his father still felt he must take such precautions, he had not objected long. Merry talk and humor had stemmed any possible monotony during the long journey. 

"We should soon seek a place to rest the night my lord." Meldir suggested as they came to a halt at last. "There are many trees we might take refuge in and we may find a cave or alcove further into the wood."

To this last suggestion Legolas did not have a response; he deeply detested caves and his past and recent experiences in such places did not leave him wishing to enter one again, but he spoke not of his concern and led the way towards the grove.

At last a well hidden clump of trees was selected to be their resting place. Legolas felt very much at home up among the trees and soon fell into a deep sleep beneath the stars, his eyes gazing blankly out across towards the direction of the Anduin.

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Legolas awoke with a start — some sound below had roused him. Carefully he glanced through the branches towards the ground, but naught was there to be seen. He looked across in time to see Meldir awaking as well. Legolas motioned for the elf to stay put, but Meldir shook his head furiously. Legolas did not have time to argue, so as he quietly swung down from the tree, he heard Meldir also descending. 

There was indeed someone close by and Legolas' keen ears had picked up on the light rustle of feet through grass and leaves, his eyes shifted to the side: whatever was approaching was now so close upon him he was sure it must be behind him. He whirled about quickly, his hands grasping his knives, ready to strike out at the attacker...but there was none to see. Legolas glanced warily between the trees as Meldir approached. Then, quite suddenly, Legolas was startled as a voice spoke from behind him.

"I believe that a prince of Mirkwood should be more aware of his surroundings, Legolas Greenleaf."

"Mithrandir!" Legolas breathed as he turned to see who had spoken. The gray wizard was leaning on his weathered staff, chuckling as he watched the two startled elves.

"Myself indeed. Hail and well met Prince Legolas of Mirkwood, and to you, Meldir son of Maen." 

Meldir bowed his head respectfully to the wizard. "Greetings, Mithrandir."

"How came you thus?" Legolas asked, very glad to see the wizard, though surprised all the same.

"I am heading towards the Gap of Rohan, for I intend to visit the head of my order in Isengard." Gandalf explained, straightening and moving to join the two elves.

"How did you stumble upon us?" Legolas questioned, a wariness in his gray-blue gaze.

"Suspicious creature; quite by accident I assure you." Gandalf replied with a smile. "I was merely passing through these woods when I felt sure that someone was near. As I found it to be you, I decided not to disturb your rest, however I feel I did not discern correctly the accuracy of elven hearing." The wizard's eyes twinkled and Legolas gave a half smile. Gandalf unwound a silver scarf from about neck and rewound it against the evening damp. "And where are you now bound, son of Thranduil?"

"We are traveling even now to Lórien on my father's business." Legolas explained. "Never before have I visited those fair woods and I dearly wish to see what has only been spoken to me in legend."

"Ne'er will you find fairer than those woods." Gandalf agreed, looking from one elf to the next. "And how comes young Meldir to be traveling with you?"

"Protection and company." Meldir responded with a pointed smile at Legolas who rolled his eyes heavenwards slightly.

"My father deems me incapable of taking on so many long journeys without 'adequate protection'."

Gandalf seemed to find this amusing as he leaned on his gnarled staff. "You disagree? For the many years that I have been in close company with elves — and I will tell you that it has been no small amount of time — I have yet to know an elf so prone to stray into danger as you. If you and Estel were together absent longer than a full sun's cycle through the sky, I would instantly fear some ill had befallen you."

Legolas tried to frown but it came out wrong as he was trying hard not to smile. "It is Estel's fault." He retorted in an undertone. 

Gandalf redirected his attention to the second elf and put a hand on Meldir's shoulder, "I needn't worry for you, though; I am firmly confident in your ability to avoid what seems inevitable, for I could not soon forget yours or your father's actions in the battle of Five Armies. In few hands could his highness be more safely placed."

Meldir was pleased, if embarrassed, by this rare praise and Legolas banished the frown and smiled at his friend.

"It seems we are journeying the same way, Mithrandir." Legolas observed turning to the Wizard once more. "Would you travel with us for a time?"

"Why do you think I am still here?" Gandalf replied, falling into step with the elves as they began to walk towards the border of the trees. 

After a short time of peaceful travel Gandalf paused and glanced at the trees above. "Something stalks us." He said casually. Legolas, who had been talking with Meldir, frowned at him and listened for a moment.

"I hear nothing, Mithrandir."

"It smells ill." Gandalf replied easily. Legolas shook his head slightly with a small laugh; how like the wizard to depend on his nose above his hearing.

The two elves returned to their conversation, but Legolas let part of his attention lock onto the surrounding trees in case Gandalf was correct and something *was* stalking them.

Gandalf suddenly stopped in the middle of the path behind them. Legolas turned slightly when he realized the wizard had paused. "Mithra—" 

He got no further. As if lightening had come down from the sky, a warg was suddenly upon them. Landing directly where Gandalf would have been, it realized that the wizard had not continued his steady forward progress and turned instead on Legolas. The elf had his dagger out in front of him even as the beast altered his attack. Legolas struck at its eyes as it lunged towards him. The creature recoiled at the defense. By now Meldir had come up beside his prince and stood a fraction in front of Legolas, his own knives out. 

The warg could not seem to decide which to attack and in the moment of indecision Legolas and Meldir charged it. Legolas drove his dagger towards the creature's head and it turned towards the prince, but Meldir thrust his own dagger into the beast side, twisting the blade sharply. The warg let out a howl and turned heavily toward the new attack. Legolas, however, had depended on this and even as the warg made to clamp his fangs down on Meldir, a silver blade pierced its skull, and it fell back towards Legolas' feet. The elven prince leapt nimbly out of the way and landed back off the path. 

Meldir's look was one of disgust as he cleansed his blade on the ground, but Legolas was looking at Gandalf. The wizard was seated quite calmly on a rock a short distance behind, his pipe in his mouth and his pointed hat resting lightly on his knee. 

"Were you not planning to assist Mithrandir?" Legolas asked in bewilderment.

Gandalf chuckled lightly but made no move to stand. "I might have, if I had thought you needed it, but you seemed to have the situation well in hand and a feeble man such as myself would have been only a hindrance." 

Legolas smiled slightly as the wizard stood and put a hand on the elven prince's shoulder. "Worry not, Legolas Greenleaf, and be assured that when there *is* great need I will always assist if I can." There was something in the wizard's expression that made Legolas feel that Gandalf was looking further ahead, much further than the elf could ever see. "Shall we continue on?" Gandalf asked suddenly, turning to retrieve his staff from beside the rock. "Or do we wait for more such uninvited guests?"

Legolas laughed at that and moved over to Meldir to be sure his friend was well and again they returned to the path, though now Legolas was far more wary, not wishing to be surprised again.

/ (o) \ (o) / (o) \ (o) / (o) \ (o) / (o) \ (o) / (o) \

They traveled thus to the Anduin, and a long way down its banks; now speaking, now walking in silence and it was made a pleasant journey for all. At last Gandalf made to take his leave, explaining that he intended to travel a different path than the one the elven companions were taking.

"I wish you both a safe journey and safe return."

"And you as well Mithrandir." Legolas replied. "We were honored by your company." 

"My honor as well, Son of Thranduil and you, Son of Maen. Oh," Gandalf added, turning once more, "it is a curious path you chose, I must say." The wizard gave a chuckle and turned back towards the thinning tree line again.

Legolas and Meldir exchanged confused glances, and when they turned back, Gandalf had gone.

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Legolas scuffed his foot gently in the dirt sending clods of earth cascading gently down the steep banks into the churning water far below. He could now clearly see the mistake he and Meldir had made in their chosen path, but couldn't help smiling in spite of himself — so this was what Gandalf had meant about a 'curious path'.

"Meldir, we have need to cross the Anduin in order to reach the woods of Lórien."

Meldir smiled back at his prince and stared across the river. "I had feared as much my lord, but how do you propose we cross the water, or even move down its banks?"

Legolas, who was teetering between frustration and amusement, gave a measured shrug of his shoulders and sized up the stretch of water up as well as glancing with shaded eyes at the bottom of the bank. "Far too deep to wade." He commented softly.

"Too wild to swim." Meldir added.

"No boat to ferry us across." Legolas murmured coming to a stand-still at the edge.

"No native of this place to show us an alternative way across."

"And as for this steep bank: we've traveled a good distance from the actual banks of Lórien and this seems to be the lowest place."

"But it is not low enough make reach the water, even so." Meldir added.

"And we have no rope."

"Neither do we have light enough left to see our way safely down in any case." 

Meldir hid a smile as Legolas spoke once more.

"No boat, no bridge, no felled trees, no rope and no former knowledge of this place." The Prince concluded with a slight grimace. "Had I traveled this way before I should have known to cross the ford south of the Carrock instead of taking this path."

"I suppose we should take up camp here then, my lord?" Meldir suggested glancing up at the sky as it dropped into darkness.

"I do not wish to encounter another warg, especially not in the open if I can help it." Legolas grimaced at the unpleasant thought. "I think it may be better to again seek refuge in the tree line here."

"I agree, for I believe that Gandalf is too far now to come to our aid." 

Legolas laughed at that.

The two elves left the banks of the river as the light waned and darkness began to stain the sky inky black. Stars scattered across the blanket of darkness above them and they were forced to count on their keen eyes to make their way through the close knit tree line that ran near the high banks of the Anduin. Legolas was determined to find a place where they would not be easily seen, but unfortunately no such place was presenting itself and they continued into the forest.

Legolas was beginning to think they should just set up camp where they were when suddenly a noise behind them halted their motion. Legolas turned swiftly, bringing his hand back over his shoulder to grasp one of his weapons. Meldir paused in his tracks and listened, another rustle and a snap of a twig greeted their keen hearing.

"Warg?" Meldir whispered.

"Maybe." Legolas nodded warily. 

"Should we try and find out?" Meldir's question was hesitant.

"I do learn my lessons occasionally, Meldir," Legolas' said dryly, "Let us leave it alone and hope it does not track us." Meldir seemed to like that suggestion and quickly the two elves slipped away through the trees ahead of them, trying to make as little noise as they could so that the beast would not sense their presence.

So intent were they on their escape that their senses did not apprehend the strangers that lay ahead. Indeed, until they had both literally stumbled over the beings laying on the ground, they did not realize there were men in the forest at all. 

****

TBC…


	4. Brown Lands and Bad Nights

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*Bounces on to the thread grinning like an idiot*

Hey Everyone! Hannah here!! It's great to see you all!! *hugs everyone*

First I'd like to thank you all for your wonderful/encouraging/critiquing/appreciating feedback! It's great to have such dedicated readers and Sarah and I really value all your opinions and comments! Thanks SO much! =D

None: Well, you'll just have to wait and see how that turns out ;) And yes, we just had to put Gandalf in!

Lina: Oh! Goodness-Gracious!! What have you been eating Lina? *turns to Eomer* You might want to start checking her food and beverage before she gets a hold of it ;) I'm glad you like Meldir Lina, and I didn't even know you HAD a huggle-glomp list! :D Though I can certainly guess who is first on that list ;) Thorongil-Baby LOL!! That's a new one! =D

Fliewatuent: I'm glad you liked that! I really enjoyed writing Gandalf after I got the hang of writing him at all *groans* though trust me on this one, Sarah is MUCH better at writing him in general ;D

Hiro-Tyre: *laughs* That's okay if you can't post after each chapter, we're just glad you're enjoying it! : ) Oh and I'm glad you like the way we portray elves! Yes, well in the timeline in the appendixes of Return of the King, it says that the Hobbit takes place before Aragorn's errantries like when he went to Rohan and Gondor. :D Unfortunately we don't get to find out just what Meldir and Legolas did there, but I'm sure someone will write a Five Army fic sometime, though probably not us :D

e: *laughs* Hey, we love to hear our readers guess right or wrong! I'm glad you are enjoying the story…as for the men, you'll have to wait and see.

Gwyn: Unfortunately for our elf friends, when you are fleeing something in a dark wood who knows what you'll 'stumble across' or 'stumble on' in this case ;) Well, Gandalf may be able to see ahead, but seeing details does not always automatically go along with that foresight, I'm sure if there was something the elves needed to know, he would tell them. Gandalf does have his infuriating points, but in general, he has his reasons ;D Fangorn? Did we say they were going to Fangorn? ;) You'll just have to wait and see what the plan is I guess. :D Unfortunately the twins can't make an appearance in this one although they are referred to at one point or another, and they will likely be in our next fic : ) I'm glad you are enjoying it Gwyn!

Elwen-Star Maiden: Oh you have no idea *performs evil authoress grin*

phoenixqueen: Interesting guess and it brings to mind something I thought I should mention. We kind of messed up our timeline a bit (especially at the beginning) so that on some occasions (like the one in the last post) Legolas is actually a bit farther ahead in time than Thorongil is in this post. We did it mostly so that you wouldn't all be wondering 'Where in the world is Legolas?'. Sarah and I tried to make it as understandable as possible, but I know it came out kind of confusing anyway. :D 

RainyDayz: Hey! I'm glad you're enjoying the story so much! As for Thorongil and Legolas…well I am sorry to say you will have to wait a little bit for them to be in the same place, but just wait and see :D

Evenstar-Elfstone: I'm glad you're liking it! Oh the men? …umn…sorry, can't say ;D 

sabercrazy: Oooh you may need some Advil after that! :D WoW! You have a LOT of guesses! Wonder which one's right ??? ;) And yes, we rather excel at giving minimal information at first ;D

Larus: Thank you Larus! I am SO glad you are enjoying our fic! You always leave very encouraging reviews! : ) As for the length, don't worry. These first few chapters are a bit on the shortish side and I know we have a couple more throughout the fic that are on the short side, but the rest are mainly about 8 pages long, so we'll get there soon :D Stole and Garrulous?? ***laughs* Don't worry we really enjoy your reviews and we're very glad you are enjoying the story! : )**

Black Arrow: Oh my OH NO now we have a Legolas protector! *calls over her shoulder* Eomer! Could you please collect Black Arrow before Sarah and I get killed! :D I'm very glad you are enjoying it Arrow! We will try to be careful with your …uh…baby ;)

Okay everyone! Onto our next post…

And yes…it's Thorongil once more…eep…don't kill us! :D

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Thorongil

By Sarah and Hannah (Siri)

(disclaimers, explanations, and summaries 

available at the top of chapter 1)

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Chapter 4 

Brown Lands and Bad Nights

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"After the Darkness was overthrown the land of the Entwives blossomed richly, and their fields were full of corn. Many men learned the crafts of the Entwives and honored them greatly; but we were only a legend to them, a secret in the heart of the forest. 

Yet here we still are, while all the gardens of the Entwives are wasted: Men call them the Brown Lands now."

— _Treebeard, The Two Towers_

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Days of hard travel rolled on, largely indistinguishable from one another by Mavranor, who rode the whole way, sheltered in her litter. Again and again she pulled forth the map they were following and studied it until she had all but memorized the ancient scroll, and its names were as familiar as her own. She wondered at the things she had not noticed initially, such as a wood, Laurelindó renan, marked to the northwest of their intended settling place. Here her translator had deciphered a short paragraph describing the creatures that lived there, elves, and their astonishing powers. This had worried her husband slightly, though he did not know much of the elven folk beyond the distorted legends that were used to frighten children to bed. 'At the root of every legend', he had once said, 'there is often a droplet of truth', and Harnwe had determined to leave the place alone if it could be avoided. Not that he had said as much to her, but Mavranor was a shrewd woman, and knew her husband well. Her own thoughts and council she kept strictly to herself on this matter.

Leaving the edges of the Battle Plains behind them, Harnwe began to look eagerly forward, waiting for the short bushes and pale vegetation to give way to sudden beauty. Often he saw the curtains on his wife's litter twitch open and then shut again, and behind him the weary tramp of his people seemed to quicken a little. He began to give orders for the soldiers to work their way to the front of the column, preparing for the possibility of inhabitants beyond the next low rise of hills. He would spring upon them unawares, and if they gave in quickly, they would be permitted to live on under his rule. If not…

With a last thunderous shake of the earth, his mûmak halted at his bidding on the crest of the hill and he paused to look down upon his new kingdom. His mouth went dry. The wind, whistling easily over the flatness of the land below, brought him the smell of dust and emptiness. Brown. Brown as far as the eye could see, and silence as deep as the ear could penetrate. Whether the plants naturally grew in the same drab way, or whether they were simply dead, Harnwe could not determine, but the over all effect was bleak. His heart plummeted even as the rest of his army came to a halt around him. A mûmak trumpeted in a muted way farther down the line, and out of the corner of his eye, Harnwe saw his wife's head emerge and freeze, solid as ice, her red lips parted.

For a long minute there was utter silence, new plans and old denials chasing their way, head after tail, in the Southron king's mind. //We must not let the people over the hill… this isn't how it was described!… perhaps we should claim we have lost our way… perhaps we *have* lost our way… no, that is not possible… what if they turn on me and kill me? // And then his head turned, and his eyes met those of his wife.

Mavranor flinched inwardly at the stunned expression on her husband's face. She had no idea how this could have happened, but now was not the time to show bewilderment, and they both knew it. Even as she watched, Harnwe called to his messengers to announce that they would be camping early; hopefully this would keep his subjects from realizing what was beyond the hills just yet. Pulling the map quickly from its pouch, Mavranor began to scan it rapidly for clues, desperate to find a new course of action before hers and Harnwe's tent was erected.

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"I cannot believe I allowed myself to be led off on such a quest at the word of a *woman*!"

Mavranor only just blinked as her king's shout reverberated in her ears. As with all the Haradrim her husband had a powerful temper, and now he was venting his disappointment loudly. Any other woman in her position would be trembling for her life, but it was in times like these that Mavranor felt an incredible gratefulness that she had not followed her first inclination and married Harnwe's brother. Muindor often seemed lax and rather stupid, but in battle he was fierce and without pity, and with his family and his subjects he was little better. No matter how enraged her husband became, he would never hurt her, and it was this that not only gave her a sense of safety but also of confidence.

"If you'll recall," she pointed out calmly, "I merely gave you the map and explained the possibility. It was *you* who took what I said and developed this plan of yours!"

Harnwe glared at her, his brown hands clutching two of the ten poles as if he intended to squeeze them in two with his fury. "A fine speech for your king! Little do you know what pride… what toil… If you had not fed me such faulty information, we would not be here!"

"If you had not *accepted* such faulty information, we would not be here! And do you think your people will turn aside and hurl their wrath at me? Nay, for they believe the plan sprang entirely from your own head, as you wished them to. I am not the one in danger, my lord." Her dark eyes snapped and her words were now clipped and harsh, "Beyond that, you know that you could not have defeated your brother; you were doomed to death and failure. That place was no longer ours. And now, whatever the past, we are here, and we have not enough supplies to return the way we have come, so it would do you well put aside your self pity and *behave* like a king!" The last words hung in the air and Harnwe started up, his hand up, his face so dark that Mavranor almost feared — but no. He arm sank, the fires in his eyes dying as he gazed at her. The air cooled.

"My own," he said firmly, as if their conversation had not taken place at all, "give me the map."

Carefully she passed it to him and he spread it on a small table, studying it closely. Finally he said, "Clearly this map is so old as to be untrustworthy, so before I decide upon a fresh course, I shall send scouts. It is the best way."

"It is, my lord." Mavranor agreed, quite ready to support him in his new mood. Whatever she might say in her head, she knew she had helped to bring them to this pass, and whatever she might rationalize in her heart, his sudden move had frightened her.

Slipping her arms about his chest after the messengers had gone, she trailed her finger along his chin, her lips curling into an adoring smile, if a tentative one. In return, his expression smoothed and his hand caught her chin, drawing her mouth to his for a kiss.

"I shall build you a kingdom, my own," he murmured. "By any means necessary."

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"Why, what—" Duurben strangled off his involuntary exclamation, falling back into rigid silence as his captain surveyed the empty seventh circle.

"Lord Denethor told you we were to meet them here, did he not?" Thorongil asked calmly, with no reproach in his words as he glanced at Duurben.

Duurben's answer was quick, "Yes, sir. Or at least, one of his messengers did."

"Thank you," the captain nodded, accepting his subordinate's word on the matter, and turning to an approaching stable hand who had been unsaddling a courier horse, "You there, do you know aught of the Lord Denethor's whereabouts?"

"Aye, sir," the man answered respectfully, "Lord Denethor departed earlier this day, saying he could wait no longer for the rest of the city guards."

Duurben blinked, murmuring aloud, "The messenger who came to alert me must have been delayed…"

But Thorongil's forehead was creased, and Duurben had the strangest feeling that the captain understood far more about this incident than he did. When he spoke, his words were brief, "Thank you. Come men, we shall have to start if we hope to catch up with them before they reach the battle lines."

"Oughtn't we to wait for the other city guards before leaving?" asked Halba uncertainly.

"Nay, for my company was the only one selected to go," Thorongil answered. He was already walking, and so his last words were but uncertainly caught by Duurben: "A fact which Denethor knew full well, I deem."

Confusion was laid aside for the moment, however, as the company, numbering only twenty, set out from the gates on foot, planning to collect horses at the far side of the river Erui.

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Duurben awoke, staring up between the trees at the stars above him and sensing the damp seep through his clothes. //Another fine night.// They had been walking for three days, resting only at night, and still they had not closed the distance between themselves and the rest of the army. Thorongil did not seemed overly concerned, saying that they would catch up once they were mounted, but there was something unsettling about their abandonment, and Duurben knew he was not the only one who felt it. At least the knowledge that the army had passed before them lessened the need for more than one sentry at night.

Casting a glance at Beren, who was several years younger than himself and even newer in the service of the White Tower, Duurben frowned at the way the man was sitting, with his head sunk forward. For one moment, Duurben thought the sentry must be dead, and then he caught the slow rise of the man's chest and he rose abruptly up from his blankets.

"Beren!"

Beren started awake, his head snapping up, and at the same instant there came a wild yell from around them, waking the rest of the company instantly. Thorongil leapt to his feet, his sword out before any of the others; he had not slept fully since leaving Minas Tirith, and had kept his weapons still girt about him even in rest. His blue eyes raced over the edges of the wood around them, and now caught the shimmer of scimitars, clear in the moonlight to any watching eye.

"To the west, men, quickly," he muttered. "They have us outnumbered, but not quite surrounded."

They set off without question, their dark cloaks blending against the ground and the trees, making it difficult to see how many there truly were in the glade, or where they went as they slipped away. In passing, Duurben saw that Beren's face was bloodless and his hand shook.

It took but a moment for the small party of Southrons to realize that their prey was slipping free, and they quickly set off in pursuit, crashing noisily through the trees and breaking out just as the men of Gondor had set off across a strip of meadow, angling for the rocky hills beyond. The first tier of the rising ground was edged with a bank of stone, sheer, higher than a man, and curving around, giving the hill the appearance of a grassy, fortified city.

With their enemies close upon them, Thorongil did not waste time on orders, but rather threw himself forward, catching the upper edge of the stone ring and hauling himself onto it, his feet catching small cracks and helping anchor him. Several of his men did likewise, turning to haul their companions up after them, until at last all were mounted on the stone outcropping. Duurben felt a brush of air at his back as the captain brought him up last, and even as his feet found solid ground and he turned, the Haradrim were attempting to follow.

"Arrows," Thorongil shouted, pulling his own free and stringing one quickly to his bow.

A shot sang in the night and caught the first Southron in the leg, collapsing him to the earth. Thorongil had, through accident or design, chosen a good spot to defend, for the stretch of meadow was well lit for bow shooting, and while in possession of the high ground they were able to prevent the Southrons from using their hand to hand weapons with much effect. Still, now that Thorongil could see them, he wondered that they had been called a 'small company'. The moonlight glistened on the red turbans and bright armor of at least fifty men, and there was a light of battle in their faces. The captain glanced down the line of his men, gauging his options as they fired madly into the oncoming enemy. Some of the shots found their mark, but even more ricocheted off the armor; they would not be able to hold their position for much longer. Casting a look behind him, he paused and then tapped Duurben on the shoulder, tilting his head back and hoping the soldier would understand.

Duurben fulfilled his captain's trust, nodding shortly, and approaching the edge a little more closely to crush under his foot the intruding hand of an ambitious Southron. They were beginning to swarm close to the stone face in larger numbers, preventing the bows from being of much use, and with a sudden flash, a scimitar was flung upwards. its intended target flinched aside, but it slashed the soldier next to him, and with a cry, Beren staggered, blood spilling down his sleeve as his hand went limp and he dropped his bow.

"Pull back," Thorongil bit out, his hand reaching back for another arrow and finding none. They broke away from the edge, the Haradrim letting out a victorious cry in their own language as the climbed after them. Rushing up the steep hill, two of the men hauled Beren after them, their feet skittering on the patches of shale-like rock and damp grass beneath them as they strove to wend their way safely between the scattered boulders that covered the hillside. Thorongil brought up the rear, Duurben at his side, keeping behind even the slowest, and pausing nearly half way to the crest of the hill to turn and slow the front most of their pursuers. His sword slid from its sheath, coming up to meet the curved scimitar of the swarthy Haradrim with a ringing clang. 

The Southron smiled confidently, biting off something that his opponent couldn't understand, but Thorongil's face remained tight with concentration as he turned the blade back and brought his weapon out again, striking towards the Southron's neck in a swift blow. It was strongly blocked, sending a shiver through his arms, but not loosening his grip. Moving in a strange curved motion, similar to the shape of his blade, the Southron tried to swing inside Thorongil's defenses and sliced him across the back of the hand just as he pulled back. Laughing at the perceived retreat of his victim, the Southron showed a row of brilliantly white teeth as he brought his hilt back to smash Thorongil in the jaw. But the captain dropped completely this time, letting the momentum of the larger man's swing take his scimitar too far away from his chest to bring it back in time. Thrusting upwards once, Thorongil caught the man in between the ribs, and turned away again, not waiting to see whether the wound was mortal.

To the side, Duurben was involved in a similar conflict with two more of the enemy, his sword notched and the side of his face red with blood. Slipping on the wet turf, Thorongil threw himself at one of the Haradrim, bringing his blade down on the unsuspecting attacker's arm and causing him to drop his weapon with a cry. Duurben caught the other with a blow from the flat of his blade to the man's knees and there was a crack as the man fell. Dashing the blood from his eyes, the soldier turned to follow his captain on again before the bulk of the enemy could come upon them.

Up ahead the first of the men had gone over the hill, and even the wounded had made good progress. Giving a short nod, Thorongil dove behind one of the larger rocks, hoping he had not overestimated the precarious state of his chosen weapon. He had not: the rock tapered at its base, making it top-heavy, and was being held in place chiefly by gravity as it sat in a shallow dip in the ground. Setting his shoulder to it, his muscles tightening with the strain, he threw his weight against it. It rocked forward, and then rocked back. Gritting his teeth, he pushed again, his boots sliding slightly beneath him — every nerve devoted to the task at hand, with no thought spared for what might become of his men if they were overtaken. His hands were on fire with the pressure — his legs felt like they might snap under the strain — and then, with a crunch that sounded like a thousand bones breaking, the rock fell forward. And down it went. Gathering speed and dislodging countless smaller stones as it traveled, Duurben's chosen rock joined it, and barreled onward. The echoing smashes of stone against stone ricocheted off the trees, and warned the Haradrim only minutes before the rockslide was upon them. With cries of dismay, they turned aside, trying to find shelter from the deluge of earth and stone. 

Several gained cover behind other rocks only to have them dropped upon their heads as the impact of the sliding mass struck the back of their chosen shelters and pitched them forward, crushing the men behind them, and adding the rolling torrent. Other men were dragged under as they tried to flee, their heavy armor serving them ill when speed and agility was required.

Hours seemed to pass before the echoes quieted and the rocks at last found secure resting places in the meadow below. The leader of the Southron party had been killed, and in the silence, his second-in-command rose and surveyed the damage. Of the fifty original men, only twenty were moving, and half that number appeared badly injured, to the point of being unable to travel without assistance; there was no alternative but to return to their army in disgrace. 

Unless— looking up the hill furiously, the Southron's eyes scanned the dark outline of the hill in the moonlight, searching for a trace of the men he had pursued with such confidence… but to no avail. Had they been ghosts the men of Gondor could not have vanished more fully.

/ (o) \ (o) / (o) \ (o) / (o) \ (o) / (o) \ (o) / (o) \ 

With the exception of one pause to hastily bandage those most injured in his company, Thorongil did not let them halt until near dawn. Forging a trail ahead of them, helping untangle his men when the foliage became too thick, he at last found a sheltered alcove amongst some more trees, through which a tributary of the Erui ran, and ordered them all to sit. The air was chill and the water ice cold, but the men cared little in their exhaustion and quickly set about binding the injuries of their companions. Two of the few who had escaped unscathed took up watch.

Beren had lost a great deal of blood, but though weak, was still able to sit unaided as his captain cut his sleeve carefully away and washed the filthy cloth in the stream, using it to clean the wound afterwards. The Haradrim were not known for poisoning their weapons, and for this Thorongil was grateful, knowing that to heal such wounds he would need to reveal more of himself than he would have wished. Working silently, he drew out a needle and thread, wincing inwardly in sympathy as Beren's face tightened in pain. However, he stitched quickly, not sparing time to give comfort, and finishing the grim job in a mercifully short period of time. Pulling some roots from his pouch, he cut one piece off and chewed it carefully, spitting it into a cupped handful of water, and rubbing the mixture in his palms for lack of any real tools. Spreading the paste-like mixture over the wound, he bound it tightly and said wearily, "I'm afraid there is nothing more I can give you. All my non-essential, pain suppressing medicines were left at our camp site."

Beren's answer was clipped and harsh, "You ought to have left me."

The company went suddenly still; they had been waiting for their captain to discover Beren's negligence and now it was coming out.

Thorongil looked tired, and rather like he didn't want to deal with the situation that was being presented to him, but he asked quietly, "And why would I have done that?"

"I fell asleep, sir." The words were thick with self-loathing. "I fell asleep and allowed them to creep up on us. If Duurben hadn't awoken, we would have all been dead before morning."

The mention of Duurben seemed to call the captain on to his next task, and he gestured his lieutenant forward, examining the gash on his forehead that he had been attempting to clean himself. It was bleeding fast, dabbling the white tree upon his breast with red, and would need to be sewn up also. The silence drew on, and Duurben cast a glance at his leader, wondering what the other would say.

The words, when they came, were grim. "And if I had taken time to think clearly, you would not have been the only one on watch." Beren looked confused, so Thorongil elaborated, "I had already been informed that a group of Haradrim might be loose along our path, and if I had not assumed that Lord Denethor's larger army had already dispatched them, I would have left more sentries and the whole burden would not have fallen upon you. Yes, Beren, you were wrong to fall asleep, and much ill could have come of it; I would not be a good captain, nor a truthful man if I were to deny that. But we all still live, men by nature make mistakes, and you were not the only one at fault in this. I think I can safely trust you not to make the same error again?" Here the blue eyes flicked away from Duurben's forehead to catch Beren's, and there was a searching in them that seemed to pierce him like a sword.

"Yes, Captain." Beren said, and in his heart he determined to die before he betrayed this new trust.

Thorongil finished the last stitch and began to smear a new batch of paste over the wound, binding a strip of cloth around Duurben's forehead when done, and not seeming to think any further words necessary. The men ate out of the traveling rations that they carried with them, and drank from the stream, having finished treating all the minor cuts and bruises that were many of them merely the product of a headlong run over loose rock and through dense woods. Duurben's palms had lost a layer of skin from dislodging the large rock, and he assumed that the captain's were the same, but when he turned to ask if he needed aid with his own injuries, he decided it could wait for at least an hour or two. 

Thorongil, still sitting against a tree with his hood up and his ear tilted as if to catch the first hint of danger, had dozed off.

****

TBC…


	5. Thengel

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Sarah here again! *gasps* Whoa. I'm so glad you liked it! You're talking to the girl who used to avoid action _like the plague_ until she started writing LOTR and, well, it became unavoidable.

phoenixqueen: 'Trouble' with a capital 'T'! I guess we can cut Harnwe a little slack, since it was 'try a gamble' or 'be wiped out', but you're very right. And yes… Denethor… *grimaces* I may write him, but that doesn't mean I have to like him. ; ) And I'm so glad you liked our take on Thorongil!! *big smile* It's a tough thing making him human, and yet not stupid; but we don't want to turn him into a Mary Sue here. : D

Halo: *smacks Halo's computer* Behave! And it's okay, we're glad you liked it!! : )

Mercredi: *hugs Mercredi* Thank you for your encouraging review! Particularly in regards to our villains (who we worked hard on), our POVs (which we worried over), our setting, and our character portrayals (we are VERY fond of our heroes here and would like to do them justice if it can be managed). All in all: you have quite compensated for coming in late, and please, have a cookie! ; )

fliewatuet: *passes word on to Mavranor that she has a fan* Thanks! Mavranor was a combined brainchild (or brainvillain, if you will) and we tried hard to make her believable, etc. Yeah, Denethor's a good fighter, but not very good at getting along with the other children. ; ) 

Asen: *restrains Asen* Don't hurt yourself!! Please, it's okay, it's okay! We're delighted to have you and don't mind a bit if *when* you show up, so long as you like it. As for the beginning: if you mean Harnwe and Mavranor's introduction, you wouldn't have found anything about that in the appendices anyway, so don't worry. We attempted to make the plot simpler later on, but then, we add a bunch more characters later on too, so maybe it'll get worse… : |

Starfleet Hobbit: *blushes* Golly, thanks! Like I said, I've never been Action Girl. : D

RainyDayz: Hanta le, mellon nin! Of course they haven't forgotten! *scandalized look* Currently they're just a little busy. ; ) And to be exact: they haven't seen each other for ten years, and it's been twelve years since Death or Despair. Not too bad, but you're right, they're due for a reunion. When? Not for a while, I'm afraid… *sheepish look* And I'm glad you liked our captain/soldier relationship!

None: Thanks! But I'm afraid they don't meet for a while… *ducks rotten fruit*

Elwen: Don't worry, he learned! : D

e: It made perfect sense and was, at the same time, very complimentary! Thank you! : ) As much as we dislike Denethor over here, we tried not to take away from the fact that he *was* a good leader, even if nothing else (say, *father*, for example). If you thought he let the Southrons through on purpose to get rid of Thorongil, I can assure you we did not mean it that way (though you're right: he probably could have convinced himself that his actions were valid if he had done so); but aside from that, I guess we're going to have to plead 'ignorance' on his behalf and say that he just didn't know the enemy was behind him. Is that a little better? And Legolas and Aragorn *will* meet… eventually. *bites lower lip* Um, I'm afraid it won't be for a while, though; just to warn you. *makes a hasty retreat* Thanksagainandhere'syourupdate!

Lina: *falls over laughing* Good grief, will our villains never get a moment's peace?? ; D And Thorongil does have a wee bit of a reputation in that line, doesn't he? *glances significantly at Cassia and Sio* 

Eomer: *talks as understandably as she can with a man whose hair looks, well, not 'fluffy', but more 'electrified'* See, it's like this: you've got a sword, and a nice scowl, and a helmet; and besides that: you're HERE! Everybody else is too far south! *notices she's not convincing Eomer-the-weary-of-catching-plot-wreckers* We'll give you some sedatives for Lina and a life-time supply of hair gel! : )

sabercrazy: Um, heh heh, I don't know if caffeine would be the greatest idea just now; you're apt to start bouncing off the walls… the ceiling… me… : D As for Thorongil, well, he needs to work on that a bit, doesn't he?

And now, for some NEW characters! *smiles brightly*

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Thorongil

By Sarah and Hannah (Siri)

(disclaimers, explanations, and summaries 

available at the top of chapter 1)

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Chapter 5

Thengel

A long banner, green with the silhouette of a white horse upon it, rippled back in the autumn wind, snapping against itself in the late afternoon light. The White Mountains shone in the distance, and as Thengel, sixteenth king of Rohan, paced the familiar worn stone steps, he felt contentment wash over him. Though he had long avoided Meduseld in the days of his father, it was now more his home then ever anywhere else could have been. Behind him the oaken doors opened and the lithe figure of a woman slipped out to join him, a long green cloak protecting her from the chill and a second cloak hung over her arm.

"Thengel, it is cold." She murmured, proffering the cloak, and as he turned to take it from her, he felt his breath catch in his chest. Even after years as man and wife, he had still not accustomed himself to her beauty.

"Thank you," he smiled, accepting the warm garment.

"What was my lord thinking of?" she asked softly, pushing at several strands of hair that had come unbound from their braid, and moving closer to him, indicating the mountains with a tilt of her head.

"Gondor," he replied honestly. "I was recalling my years there."

Her blue eyes found his searchingly, "Do you wish your people had found a different ruler?"

"You always were direct, Steelsheen my love," he chuckled, using the peoples' name for her.

"Thank you," she smiled graciously, "and the question still stands unanswered."

"Persistent!" Thengel exclaimed, as if discovering her charms for the first time, yet he subsided at her look, "Very well, I shall give you an honest answer. No. I do not regret returning to the place of my birth, and now I am here, not even Lossarnach in the spring could call me away. Still, my heart does rest there in part, for I spent many happy years within those borders and the places where we are happiest never truly leave us, nor let us free."

"Aye. There you did many brave things," she reminisced, lost along with him now, "and won great renown."

"Ah, but renown was not the only thing I won there," his smile caressed her roguishly, "nor was it the most valuable. Indeed, all the battles that ever I fought there paled in both danger and difficulty when compared with the quest for a certain lady's hand."

"Oh?" she questioned, feigning both ignorance and suspicion while her eyes danced, "Was it someone I knew?"

"Very well, though I'm forced to admit that, though younger than thee, her beauty was but half of yours."

Silvery laughter greeted this grave reply, causing the guards at the foot of the steps to look up in surprise. "My lord has the light tongue of the elves to speak thus so flatteringly to a mother of five!"

"Morwen!" he cried, using her real name, "would you call me false?"

"Nay," she reassured him quickly, "for love can be blind and yet not false. Still, let us not quarrel, for evening draws near and your son has just returned from Dunharrow and will have a report to make."

Entering the main hall of their home, they were greeted by the sight of their son and his next younger sister conversing quietly over some bit of needlework she was stitching, and as they drew nearer, Thengel's eyebrows rose.

"Its head is smaller than its hooves," his son was insisting, bending down and peering at the design critically, "and its tail would never flow like that."

The girl snorted in disgust, "The tail isn't meant to be wholly true to nature, brother. It is meant to show the majesty of the horse as it glides swiftly across the plains."

"Horses don't glide, they gallop, and there is still the matter of the head and hooves." There was a wicked gleam in the young man's eyes and for a moment he looked like a full boy again. In truth, though only nineteen, he was already trusted with much by his father and was considered a very accomplished rider and leader by the Rohirrim.

His sister, on the other hand, looked every speck the youth of her twelve years as she bit back, "*I* will not critique your spear throwing, and *you* shall leave me to my tapestry. Or would you rather set it aright yourself? It would be interesting sport indeed to see your clumsy fingers with a needle."

"Taetho, calm down," Morwen admonished, finally bringing the argument to halt, "And Théoden, leave your sister be. I honestly thought that by this age you would be through nettling each other so often."

Thengel chuckled at the dubious looks the two cast at one another. Of all their children, their third and fourth had always had a knack for irritating each other, and now that his two eldest daughters had left his home and married, it fell chiefly to his wife to put out the brush fires.

Noticing his father, Théoden seemed to stand straighter, falling into the role of a soldier ready to report to his lord. Thengel raised a hand reassuringly, "Unless it is urgent, my son, we can wait until after the evening meal."

Théoden relaxed, "It is not—" His sentence was cut off as something petite suddenly burst in upon them and flung itself at him, squealing loudly.

"Thayden, Thayden!" The comet resolved itself into a small girl of four in a spring green dress and bodice, holding her arms out eagerly.

Laughing with pleasure, the young man caught up his youngest sister and swung her up in a wide arch, sitting down on the hearth stone with her between his knees when she landed, "And how fared your pony in my absence, small one?"

She made a comical face, her small nose screwed up beneath her wide eyes, "Father won't let me gallop when you're not with me. And I'm not small anymore." She tacked on as an afterthought.

"Father has his reasons for everything," her brother assured her gravely, tousling her yellow hair affectionately. "But don't worry, we'll gallop tomorrow, as much as your pony can manage. And why aren't you small anymore?"

Her eyes widened, "I've grown bigger since you left. Didn't you notice?"

Her parents laughed and Taetho looked up from her work, replying with conviction, "Theodwyn, he's only been away for a few weeks."

"Never mind. I don't think I'd be able to stop calling you 'small one' even if you were to grow taller than I," Théoden said, standing and taking her hand as a servant came to tell them that supper was ready.

Looking up at her adored big brother's great height, Theodwyn blinked in awe, "I'd be able to ride a *horse* then, wouldn't I?"

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The hall was dark and quiet after the departure of nearly everyone for bed, and the only light was the red glow of the fire. Thengel sat in his chair, smoke spilling lazily from the end of his pipe as he sorted through his son's report, or what little there was of it. Things were remarkably peaceful in his realm.

Théoden was still standing in front of him, one hand resting on the mantle, and his stance relaxed — his weapons and riding gear gone. The silence continued on, but it was not the unpleasant silence of two dissimilar people with nothing to discuss. Thengel was his son's king, but he was also his father, and through the years he had tried to cultivate both aspects of their relationship. It had always been a misery to him that he and his own father had never been capable of moments like this; that in the end the only way to survive his home had been to escape it altogether.

Looking up, Thengel noticed a frown on his son's face, and asked softly, "Is there something amiss?"

Théoden started from his reverie, and said, not quite truthfully, "Nothing of serious note."

"Théoden," his father murmured, "if it is a question, you may feel free to ask it."

The young man blinked, surprised at his lord's insight, and said hesitantly, "I was considering Isengard. Father, do you believe it was," he paused, struggling, then blurted, "*wise* to give it over to the care of — of someone whom you did not know?"

Thengel nodded slowly, "Ah, I see. I wondered if you would ever ask me that."

"Please don't think me disrespectful father," Théoden said hastily, but his father held up a hand to quiet him.

"No, it is the duty of rulers to question everything that bears upon them or their subjects. I asked myself that very question when the wizard first made his claim, but concluded that there could actually be no safer guardian for the Gap than he. After a close talk with him, my opinion was confirmed. I had never before, nor ever since met such a wise and learned man — if man he be — and I ceased from that moment to fear my judgment on the matter." He looked at his son thoughtfully, "It might be well for you to meet him yourself, so that you can decide on your own account."

Théoden opened his mouth, but there came the sound of the door opening and instead he turned to face the messenger who entered and bowed.

"_Wé stu Thengel há l_," he greeted his lord respectfully, "I bring tidings from the Ford of Isen. A large company of orcs from the northwest have crossed, and are bound for our fields and horses. Several of your marshals have already begun to muster their é oreds to bring to our aid, but we will likely have need of more before the day is won."

Thengel rose, nodding in understanding and noting the weariness of the rider before him, "Very well. Go to the guardrooms and rest now, I will see to the matter."

With another bow, the messenger left, and Thengel turned to his son, "It should not prove difficult to drive them back if enough riders are provided, but it would be well for a leader to be sent as well, to oversee and direct the different companies."

Théoden inclined his head in agreement, "Of course. Shall I go?"

Thengel paused to look at his son — the idea had not actually occurred to him, and he had planned to go himself, but as he caught sight of the determination in the young man's blue eyes, he reconsidered. Here was one situation he felt sure would not be of too long a duration, and it stood well within his son's abilities. And one day Théoden would be king. Giving a measured nod, he said, "Yes. Théoden, second Marshal of the Riddermark, I hereby give you command of the defenses of our western border, and place all captains and riders under your authority. You are to be followed, and your directions are to be accepted as though you were myself."

Straightening from his relaxed position, Théoden bowed as the messenger had and said in the same formal tone, "Your command shall be obeyed, my lord."

Turning from his father, he strode across the room to go and ready his horse, and then paused in the doorway, his manner altering just slightly, "Would you kindly send my apologies to Theodwyn? I shall not be able to take her riding on the morrow as I said I would."

A smile touched the king's lips even as a sense of worry passed over him for his son's safety. "I will tell her myself."

/ (o) \ (o) / (o) \ (o) / (o) \ (o) / (o) \ (o) / (o) \

"My Lord Denethor," a soldier spoke suddenly from the side, "Captain Thorongil has arrived with his men."

Denethor looked up in surprise; he had not expected the captain to reach him in anything less than a fortnight, if he decided to follow at all. "Bid him come forward."

Thorongil obeyed, Duurben once more at his side. "My lord," he greeted Denethor, inclining his head, "I apologize for our delay. We were hampered in our travels by some of the enemy, and did not cross the Erui until three days ago." He made no mention of being left to catch up, but there was a vaguely questioning look in his eyes as he surveyed Denethor's face.

"How many of your men were lost?" Denethor asked calmly, noticing Duurben's bandage.

"None, my lord, though we had a few badly injured."

"And the group that attacked you?"

"We did not stay to find out, but deemed the number of them remaining to be small."

Denethor opened his mouth as if to question him further, but a messenger approached swiftly and hailed him, saying that a challenge had been issued by the Southron general.

"I must go and see to this," the future Steward said briefly, turning to follow the messenger. "You will explain the rest of your doings to me later, Thorongil. Until then, treat your wounded and I will call when I have need of you."

Thorongil nodded, seeming rather pleased than otherwise at being so summarily dismissed. "Come, Duurben, I must examine your forehead again and see to Beren and the others. Then I intend to have the longest, most dreamless sleep since… since my father's when I finally returned from my first visit to our neighbors!"

Duurben blinked at the man, wondering why he was chuckling so heartily, but knowing that he was unlikely to ever find out.

/ (o) \ (o) / (o) \ (o) / (o) \ (o) / (o) \ (o) / (o) \

The following week was a tense one in the Southron camp, for eventually it was discovered that their destination was nothing but a wasteland, and this unnerved the people. Harnwe also was anxious for the return of his scouts, but managed a confident attitude when in company with all but his wife and his chief general, Brerg. Around these he alternately fumed at the delay, and cheered them with assurances of his certain victory. Through it all Mavranor smiled and accepted, and carefully removed all traces of her own worry. And when the first of the scouts began to return, not a soul could see beneath the veneer of pleasure for her husband to the utter relief of someone who has just cheated death, real or imagined.

The third scout to arrive came straight to Harnwe's tent with all haste, and was admitted at once to be greeted both eagerly, and also affectionately, for he was Gwanur, the queen's brother. His dark skin seemed to glow as he took his seat and began to tell what he had seen.

"I traveled directly west, as you instructed, my lord, and before many days had gone I found myself approaching green land and a river. There was not enough land on the near side of this river, so I passed over to the far side and at last found inhabitants." Harnwe leaned forward intently, but remained silent as his brother-in-law continued, "There were outposts to guard the border, but their walls are not strong enough, I judge, to keep back our mûmakil, nor catapults, and might soon be taken."

"And would such an undertaking be worth the men?" Harnwe asked.

Gwanur nodded quickly, "Indeed, lord, for there are long, flat plains on which we could breed our animals, and rich earth, and stone, and patches of wood as well, even excluding the river, which is wide and fresh."

He went on to tell of the people who lived there — simple people, with few weapons in evidence, who seemed chiefly interested in the breeding of livestock, and farming. Slowly, Harnwe's eyes began to snap with eagerness, scarcely believing that such good fortune could have come to him. It was even an even better alternative than he could have imagined, and he knew well he could trust Gwanur's word. The young man, though easily lead and disinclined to pause and think when his blood was up, had yet a factual sort of intelligence and was completely loyal to his sister and his king.

"I thank you for your report," Harnwe said, when at last his brother-in-law finished speaking, "I will consider what you have told me."

Mavranor watched her husband intently as her brother left, hope rising within her at his altered expression. "My lord…?" She left the question hanging.

"It is perfect, my own. Perfect. I shall not wait another day, we will begin to move camp tomorrow, before our supplies sink any lower. We can stop on this side of the river and cross on the mûmakil, floating our other weapons over and still catching them by surprise. They will not stand a chance against us."

Smiling proudly, his wife replied, "Of course not."

****

TBC…


	6. Sacrifice and Capture

****

Sarah here again! Some responses to all your wonderful feedback before I go into hiding:

phoenixqueen: Thank you so much! Um, yeah, there's some Legolas coming up! *smiles a little too innocently and changes subject* The sleep bit there was an brief mention of Cassia/Sio's stuff; we were referring to Aragorn's first visit to Mirkwood (where, of course, he got into a lot of trouble, met Legolas, and didn't come home until after 'First Meetings', 'Change of Mind, Change of Heart', 'Exile' and 'Return'!). Lots of your guesses were pretty near the mark -- I won't say *how* near ; ) -- except for a few of the directions (for example: the Southrons, since they were heading for the Brown Lands, are now on the *eastern* border of Rohan, and Theoden is going west). As for the Southrons Thorongil met, that's a little confusing. : | Basically: There are two groups of Southrons here. Harnwe was kicked out of Harad by his brother, Muindor, and is now east of Rohan. After Harnwe had gone *Muindor* attacked Gondor's southern border, and Denethor and Thorongil were sent south to defeat him. SO (if I haven't totally messed you up yet) the group of Southrons Thorongil and Duurben just fought were part of *Muindor's* army, not Harnwe's. Oh yes, and about your calendar: as Hannah put it: I'm too flattered to call her crazy! *gives phoenix some chocolate to help with college stress* : )

Halo: *oblidgingly kicks Halo's misbehaving computer* Thanks! : D

Jade Took: Welcome, welcome! I'm so glad you like it so far! : )

Gwyn: Yeah, it's pre-FOTR (year 2967 of the third age -- Aragorn is 36 -- if you want to cross-reference it on the timline in the appendices)! And it's okay: we got a little more complicated in this fic, so we figured we'd probably wind up confusing several people at least; and you're not the only one. ; )

None: Denethor: arogant. Yup, pretty much! As for *why* he's that way, I'm afraid he's got a bit of an inferiority complex (at least, according to Tolkien in Unfinished Tales, I think it was), and to him Thorongil looks like a serious threat. It was always interesting to me that, in spite of his suspicions, he never realized that Thorongil was a *legitimate* 'threat'; what with the whole 'future king' thing. Just as well he died before Aragorn arrived in Minas Tirith in ROTK. And Legolas.... right.... um... yeah, he's in this chapter. *prepares to make tracks for Angmar*

e: Alas! I fear we shall remain unforgiven for quite some time! Really, I can't but apologize and explain that there is no way to fix it: what's written is written, and we broke enough rules of good fic production by bumping a Legolas chapter so close to the beginning for you like that... Yes, Theoden was surrounded by sisters (poor guy), and he is the future king as well as the middle child! Tolkien never actually mentioned any of their names except Theodwyn, but he *did* say that Theoden was the third child and had no brothers. We filled in the blanks on where they had gone ourselves. : ) *glances from the Southrons to the Rohirrim and back* Somehow, I don't think their invasion will be 'well recieved', if you mean 'greeted at the border with flowers and balloons'. If you mean the Rohirrim are going to kick them out before they even enter, or something like that, I'm afraid I can't comment! : ) Well, since Legolas is a close second, and since I can't give you the chapter where they meet yet, here is a just-Legolas chapter. Yeah. *ducks*

reginabean: Welcome and thanks! I'm so glad that, of all the distractions, you picked us! : D And I like stories like that myself; especially when the groundwork is already laid for you. *takes the hint* Yup, Legolas is here now. Mm-hm. *smiles disarmingly and begins to slip away*

Larus: *grins* Yeah, we'd noticed that about fighting... Truly, though, in a pre-FOTR time-period like this one (and even in post-ROTK, some of the time), fighting just seems to be unavoidable. I guess it's because of the villains with which Tolkien populated his world; they just can't solve anything without blood and violence! To be quite honest, after all the work it took to make the last 'epic battle scenes' presentable, Hannah and I had promised ourselves we would not have any in the next fic!! What a surprise when we came away from our initial planning session and realized we already had at least three, and couldn't think of any way to get out of them! My darling (rotten) little sister's idea was that *I* should write them all, but in the end she consented to help on at least a few. ; D THANKS! I really enjoyed Thengel's family, but I wasn't sure how it would go over, since everybody would be rooting for more Thorongil and Legolas; I'm glad to hear you enjoyed it! As for what will happen to them, well, I'm afraid my lips are sealed. Yup on the Southrons: next stop: Rohan! And yup on Theoden! He's now officially 'somewhere else'... *plays ominous music* *hugs Larus* And a last thank you for your wonderful words on our maneuvering!! More hugs and some chocolate for you (though you may want to save the chocolate, since I don't know if it'll mix well with a cocktail... ; P )! *bounces off to post some more... after which she will slink away and hide under a rock*

Mercredi: Another hug for you!! You have a knack for picking up on all the parts I most wondered if anyone would notice (let alone like)! In particular: the scene with Thengel's family (of whom I became rather fond, even though they do not -- as a group -- come into this story much), Thorongil's 'confrontation' with Denethor (such as it wasn't ; ), and Mavranor and Harnwe's straight-forward-ness. Passionate villainy does make it's appearance in this story (though in what way, shape, or form, I'm afraid I cannot tell you), but Hannah and I have grown rather tired of illogical bad guys that depend on it so heavily. Thank you so much!!! : )

Elwen: Aw, thanks! I'm pleased beyond expression that our cute little family went over so well; Taetho especially, since she's the only we invented ourselves. : )

Lina: Lina, Lina, Lina! What can I say? We smiled, we sighed, we grinned, we died (laughing, of course). And in the end? We agreed that we look forward to your reviews with a relish usually reserved for chocolate and Lord of the Rings; no matter how, um, out of control you can sometimes be… To be quite honest, I wonder if you might not be rubbing off on Eomer! Still, so long as you liked our post (small romance, cuteness, old jokes, and all) and didn't actually manage to damage our villain, I think we will turn a blind eye, deaf ear, and innocent smile. : D Thanks so much, girl!

Eomer: Sorry about your hair; I didn't really mean it… much! Anyway, if you get into a habit of arguing with your uncle like this, I may need to come up with some way for Lina to restrain *you*. *blinks* I didn't just write that; I can't have… 

Rainydayz: *looks sheepish* Yeah, I guess we all kind of have that effect on people…. Believe me, it's not intentional! ; ) As for Legolas… *gets an even more sheepish look* Well, this could be a case of 'be careful what you whine for'.

sabercrazy: I never liked Denethor either!! Which explains how I can write his bad side with such conviction; jerk. ; D I'm sure Duurben reminded him at some point; I don't think we ever say exactly. But while Thorongil doesn't like a fuss being made over him, he also knows better than to let himself bleed to death, so sooner or later, he'll patch himself up of his own accord. Maybe. *eyes get round over the mention of caffeine AND sugar* Uh-oh. *dodges stray blow from rubber chicken* ACK! Get off her, I'm posting, I'm posting! *mutters* After which I'm going to Angmar and I'm not coming back until you lose the chicken. ; )

w: THANK YOU!! And welcome! You've just made our day. : ) Our dialogue is, I'm sometimes afraid, a case of hit-or-miss, so I'm glad it came out right in the end. And I'm so glad you liked our OCs! That's enough to make you our friend for life; we are very fond of OCs. ; D Sorry about the grammar mistakes! We are, alas, continually discovering new flaws in our writing and have only just conquered the it's/its monster. *wry grin*

MAY IT BE UNDERSTOOD: _This chapter was written by Hannah (Siri). _I only condoned it. : }

*hits 'post' button and runs for dear life*

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/ (o) \ (o) / (o) \ (o) / (o) \ (o) / (o) \ (o) / (o) \

****

Thorongil

By Sarah and Hannah (Siri)

(disclaimers, explanations, and summaries 

available at the top of chapter 1)

/ (o) \ (o) / (o) \ (o) / (o) \ (o) / (o) \ (o) / (o) \

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Chapter 6

Sacrifice and Capture

Legolas and Meldir fell back as the men awoke immediately and rose to their feet, weapons in hand, pointed at the two elves. Legolas spoke in the common tongue, raising his hands in peace.

"We mean no harm to you sons of men." He said clearly. There were four men in all, but he feared there were more about; certainly that must have been what they had heard in the forest. Meldir moved forward slightly, trying to put himself between Legolas and the possible danger.

The men were dressed strangely and seemed not to comprehend the meaning of Legolas' words. One snapped something to one of his fellows vehemently in another language, and Legolas recognized the words as Southron speech. The elves knew not what the Haradrim would seek this far from their native land, but they intended that no chance of attack would be given them.

"We mean no harm to you." Legolas repeated, attempting to back away. Then, quicker than the eyes of men could follow and upon a mutual agreement, Legolas and Meldir turned and fled the camp.

/ (o) \ (o) / (o) \ (o) / (o) \ (o) / (o) \ (o) / (o) \

Koth, Captain of Harnwe's westbound scouting party, entered the camp just as the two elves escaped. His shock was only marked by a slight expression of horror at sight of the creatures, but when the elves fled he ran to his men.

"They have seen us." He said in their native tongue, though he knew the common tongue as well. "The elf devils must not return to their own and tell them of us." His voice was urgent and nearly fearful; he had of course heard of these elven sorcerers, but he had thought them far across the great river, and had felt certain they would not stumble across his party.

The men ran into the woods, giving pursuit to the two elves at their captain's order. "Call the others, we must block their escape! Kill them if you catch them!" Koth called after them. His Southron wrath beginning to boil in his heart, long had it been since he had taken blood.

/ (o) \ (o) / (o) \ (o) / (o) \ (o) / (o) \ (o) / (o) \

Legolas and Meldir tore through the forest on swift feet; their clothing getting snagged and caught on the branches and brambles that hung low to the ground and rose up from below their feet. Legolas felt his heart throbbing with the urgency of their escape; he knew their pursuers were right behind and his heart gave an unexpected leap when suddenly a crashing sound rang out from their left. 

The prince dodged to the side, yanking Meldir with him just as a group of about three men came bursting through the trees. They had obviously been scouting ahead and were now cutting the two elves off. Legolas dragged Meldir several faltering steps to the right as the men advanced and the ominous sounds of crashing brush came from behind them. They now had two directions to go... Legolas' mind worked fast as Meldir notched an arrow to his bow and put himself between the prince and the advancing humans. Suddenly their path was chosen for them as angry shouts and further crashes and snapping of bracken alerted Legolas that more men were coming from the right. Legolas quickly motioned to Meldir and the two ran from the men heading the only direction they could; back they way they had come.

The elves could easily out distance the men, and, being as they were accustomed to traveling through forests, they soon reached open land once more. It was then that Legolas realized that the men had planned this all along. With Southrons on all three sides and the steep cliff and water to their back, Legolas knew their chances of escape were slight. They could not run to either side because even now the men were drawing from the trees like so many shadows cast by the moon. Pulling out his bow he notched an arrow to it; Meldir had already done so.

"My lord." Meldir whispered, as the men slowly closed the distance to the trapped elves. "If you would try to flee, I could cover your retreat."

"Nay Meldir!" Legolas' hard voice startled the younger elf, and then his words lowered as he added murmured, "I would not leave you to face this alone."

The men broke from the trees all ahead of them now and Legolas counted at least ten in all, not too many for them to handle, but with no where to run they would have to build up a strong offence to break through. The first arrow loosed was from Meldir's bow and as the hiss of air sounded close to Legolas' ear, he loosed the second. Both found their mark and two Southrons dropped to the ground, mortally wounded as far as the companions could see, but they were each already targeting a second man. 

Now, though, the Southron's were ready, rushing the elves suddenly, they only gave them a chance to loose a single arrow each: Meldir's nearly grazing one and Legolas' imbedding in the leg of another. With the Southrons so close they were forced to put their bows aside and draw out their knives. Legolas inched a little closer to the edge of the bank and felt a wind toss the cold air from the Anduin up behind him.

His dagger clashed with the gleaming scimitar of a Southron, one he recognized as being from the camp they had stumbled upon. He slashed with one dagger at the man while holding at bay another beside him. Legolas knew that Meldir was locked in a similar combat with another Southron. The men seemed hesitant to completely overwhelm the elves, as both were keeping a very fast and deadly defense, and with the two back to back, there was no way to get around one or the other.

Legolas slashed again at his opponent and caught the man's blade once more against his own. After the singing of steel against steel Legolas drew away, and as he did so, the Southron threw a iron clad boot into the prince's feet in an attempt to trip him up. Legolas caught himself, jerking forward only a little at the surprise attack, and he quickly sliced the man across the chest, but this lurch forward had been a fatal mistake. As soon as his own back had jerked away from Meldir's, Koth saw his chance. 

The man dove towards the prince with all intention of driving his scimitar into the elf's exposed back. Legolas turned slightly and saw Koth come. The man's eyes were momentarily bright with the rush of his movement and Legolas had not a moment to defend himself. Then in a single heartbeat, someone behind him took him by the shoulders, pushing him forward sharply. Unprepared, Legolas fell forward and hit the ground hard, his vision jarring for a brief moment — then he was harshly wrenched back to the present as a gasping cry sounded right in his ear. He felt the one who had grab him fall forward, weeping softly in pain as the Southron released the handle of the blade...in Meldir's back.

Legolas dropped his dagger in shock, twisting to catch hold of the elf on top of him and kneeling on the cold ground. "Meldir!" He cried shifting the wounded elf's head to a position on his arm. A gleaming crimson stain spread across his companion's back and soaked Legolas' sleeve. "No Meldir." Legolas whispered, his eyes burning, but dry with shock. He placed his hand on his friend's chest, trying to gauge the elf's breathing, but his palm encountered a sharp point: the tip of the Southron's scimitar, and he flinched away, knowing he could not remove it.

"I-I am sorry my-lord." Meldir gasped his eyes wide with pain and his face drained white. "L-Legolas, I am s-sorry."

"Do not be sorry my friend." Legolas' voice trembled as he spoke. "Just stay — hold on here, everything will be..." Legolas' voice trailed away as Meldir shuddered convulsively in his arms and went limp, his silver eyes fluttering shut as his immortal life was extinguished like a ray of sun and his spirit fled him. Legolas gasped a sob over his friend and hugged the lifeless body close.

This however was all the Southrons would allow. Roughly two of the men dragged Legolas to his feet and put a dagger to his throat preparing to kill him as well, but Legolas' eyes did not move from his friend who lay lifeless before him.

He felt the sharp steel against his throat, but only closed his eyes. "Meldir." He whispered softly his friend's name and felt a single, scorching tear run down his cheek.

"Hold!" Koth called. Stepping over Meldir's body carelessly, he moved up to Legolas and looked at the elf closely. "We cannot let him travel back to his own land, of course. However our king may have use for him. Take him." 

The two bound Legolas roughly in obedience to their captain and dragged the elf prince back towards the forest.

"What do we do with this?" One man asked nudging at Meldir's body.

"Throw it down the river," another suggested.

"Fool!" Koth snapped. "And let those devils across the river find it? Nay, we dig a pit for it and bury it." The captain kicked the dead elf harshly in irritation and switched without meaning to into the common tongue. "Just get rid of it."

Legolas' heart knotted at the man's calloused words. Koth cared not that he had extinguished an immortal flame — that he had destroyed what could not be replaced — that he had killed elf's friend. 

As he was pushed into the forest, Legolas turned to look at Meldir one last time, desperate to change what had happened, but knowing he could not. Shutting his eyes he whispered softly in the gray tongue, though his voice shook with grief. "Namárië, sadron mellon nin." 

"Quiet you!" One of the men holding him snapped in his own tongue, shoving the elf forward. In truth this man was more afraid of the fair creature than anything else, but he did as he was ordered.

Legolas sat bound hand and foot, but upright against the trunk of a tree. Around him the Southrons began to make camp again and he lay his head back against it, staring up at the stars through the tangled trees. The pain was still so near that he did not think of where they were taking him, or what they would do with him when they arrived. He only thought of Meldir and mourned his friend silently to the stars, and at last his open eyes gazed out into nothing and he fell asleep.

/ (o) \ (o) / (o) \ (o) / (o) \ (o) / (o) \ (o) / (o) \

Legolas awoke to the swishing of earth being dug. Letting his eyes focus on the men before him, he saw them shoveling out the dark earth and piling it beside them. A crude pit for a crude burial. Legolas watched in silent anguish as his friend was thrown into the pit and slowly covered with dirt until only his hand, still clenched, could be seen… and then nothing at all. 

Stunned and horror-struck, Legolas didn't resist as they cut him from the tree and bound his hands behind him once more, pushing him into the forest to what destination he did not know and could not guess.

But his heart was too numb to care.

/ (o) \ (o) / (o) \ (o) / (o) \ (o) / (o) \ (o) / (o) \

"Where are we taking the rat?" One of the men dragging Legolas along by a length of rope tied to the elf's throat asked the question with mounting distaste.

"Back to King Harnwe." Koth responded. "He may want this thing, and I'm sure he will be pleased with the results of this night."

One of the men looked over at Legolas, apparently expecting the elf to break free of his bonds and kill them all, and he seemed prepared to run if this should happen.

"What do you suppose these elf devils can do?" He asked in a hushed tone.

"Be not so fearful Gaur." Koth laughed cruelly. "None can break the strong Southron bonds, and this one will be no different. Besides, he is far too sullen after the loss of his fellow." This last he said in the common tongue, and at his words, Legolas turned his face up, the deep moonlight glinted off his cheeks which were stained with tears he had shed. For a fleeting moment, Koth seemed transfixed by the creature, as though he had never seen anything quite so beautiful and so heart-shattering in all his life. But then he abruptly turned away and gave a snort of disgust. "Fool of a creature, he should never have brought himself and that other one into our business." Legolas heard the man spit something in his own tongue and flinched at the curse.

For the remainder of the journey Legolas became silent. He let the tears burn, fall and dry in the sun the next day brought, but he no longer wept the loss so bitterly; he was now beginning to realize what danger he was in, and as they at last approached their final destination, he felt his heart beat rapidly in fear of what he would behold.

/ (o) \ (o) / (o) \ (o) / (o) \ (o) / (o) \ (o) / (o) \

"Move!" Koth snapped irritably striking Legolas once again with his walking rod. Koth had been harsh with him on this length of the journey, eager to be rid of this burden he was bringing to Harnwe. 

Legolas realized that they were at the outskirts of a Southron camp; around him he saw many Southron soldiers moving about the business of their king, bound to carry out whatever fair or foul deeds had been set in motion. His eyes cast around him and he began to wonder where exactly he was. Unless his innate senses deceived him, he was sure their direction had been southeast, taking them near Rohan, a land he had never visited before in his time. He knew then that if he were to escape there would be very little hope that he would find his way once again to where he had begun.

His mind was drawn from this thought as Koth hailed a sentry close by and rattled something sharply in the Southron speech. The sentry nodded and moved away through the ranks of Southron soldiers.

At length the man returned and beside him was a man of kingly stature, this, Legolas knew, must be Harnwe. However as the king drew closer his eyes fell upon the prisoner and became as embers of heated steel.

"Fool!" He snapped fiercely in the tongue Legolas could understand so as to hide his words from the common men. "You are a fool, Captain Koth, to bring one of *their* kind here! When those sorcerers across the river find one of their own missing they will pursue you here, make no mistake!"

Koth looked uncomfortably at his liege and bowed his head under the rebuke. "My lord, I thought only that it would not be prudent to kill him, nor release him to tell our whereabouts to his people. We already killed one of his kind and considered that your lordship may have use for him."

Legolas jolted inwardly at the reference again to Meldir. The embers in the king's eyes died slightly and the enraged expression smoldered to concealed annoyance.

"I shall kill him now if it is your wish my lord." Koth looked as though he would be all to happy to do it and drew out his weapon.

But Harnwe raised his hand and halted him. "No, there is no sense to it now, but I have no use for such a beast at present. Take him away and put him where I will not have to trouble myself with him for the time." Harnwe showed that this was his final word and moved away swiftly.

Koth was now deeply angered and took it out fiercely on his prisoner, knocking his rod harshly against the elf's back, shoving him forward. "Bring him!" He ordered curtly and the men followed in his wake, dragging Legolas with them. Legolas felt a grim sense of foreboding fall upon him. He could not see what lay ahead of him, but somewhere the light seemed to dim and he felt more alone than he had felt ever before. 

****

TBC…


	7. Attack on Two Fronts

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*pokes out from behind Sarah*

Oh…Hi…um…So what if I were to tell you that I look (sound) a LOT like Hannah but I'm not actually her…what would you say to that?

…rats.

Okay, well so I did kill Meldir I'll admit and it WAS my idea, however there is a great amount of thought that goes into such-- well it was HIS fault! *points to Koth accusingly*

Right…so…blame it on him :D

None: Yeah, I don't care for him much myself ;)

PhoenixQueen: *I* didn't kill him! ;) And as to how Legolas is going to get out of this…um…maybe he doesn't. =O ;)

Elwen - StarMaiden: Oh…is that what it means? Well, okay Glorfindel I'll take your word for it :D

Lina Skye: *eyes go Frodo-Having-Tea-With-A-Nazgul wide* Oh my. I'm starting to think maybe killing Meldir wasn't the best idea in the world…although I STILL say I didn't kill him. :D *Watches as the Rohirrim finish cleansing the Cool-Whipped forest* Eomer, just out of curiosity, how did anyone survive BEFORE you got the brilliant idea of trying to take Lina south?

Gwyn: Yes *sniff* If he must die, at least he can die honorably : )

LadyIsabelle: I'm glad you're enjoying it! :D

RainyDayz: *tries to hand RainyDayz some tissue* I'm sorry! I didn't mean it! And I didn't do it on purpose! It was all Koth's fault! …really! Oh…Legolas and Aragorn? …oh dear. Umn…you may still have to wait a while yet RainyDayz….sorry?

e: Hmm….well we'll have to see how that all goes ;) Glad you're enjoying it e! : )

Jambaby1963: Yeah! He probably DOES need a hug!

Reginabean: Sorry? Well…we kind of HAD to kill him…except WE didn't kill him…nope we didn't. *tries to grin innocently*

Chloe: Nice name. Since when have you been named that? ;) Make YOUR angst look bad? Chloe if that day came I would--it wouldn't come is the long and short of it and there is NO way it's gonna happen NOPE. Thank you Puddleglum I can't tell you how much I appreciate that charming chapter title ;)

Krismarief: Well, if it makes you feel better, I don't really like sad endings either… I do write them occasionally, though usually on vignettes, and seeing that this is about 30 chapters I don't think you can count it as a vignette. :D

Mcat: Glad you're liking it, Mcat! :D

sabercrazy: Oh good! We like that chicken right there in the closet…*notices bit about lightsaber* AH! Um….I uh… must be going! *hides in the closet with the chicken*

Cassia: Hey! Nice to see you! :D Oh it doesn't matter if you're late at all! Just say you're fashionably late and no one will know =D Oh! I am SO glad you enjoy our detail! Sarah and I really do enjoy LOTR history and another thing: Geography! Somewhere along the line we got really interested in where everything was on the map and we always get excited when we find another little corner of land with a name (hence the appearance of Mount Gundabad in the previous story) ;D Yes, well, we are very lucky to be sisters of Chloe, we actually get to smack her with pillows (or pelt her with soggy cheerios in Sarah's case) when she does minor things like KILL ARAGORN. ;) Right, well I doubt we COULD do something that bad to poor Legolas! ;) I'm glad you're enjoying it! Can't wait for more SOH (HINT HINT) =D

Asen: Ah yes! Well don't worry Thorongil's coming right up here…for a while actually. :D Oh I'm glad you like regular posting, we try hard to post every other day unless we absolutely can't, and I'm glad you like it that way!!

Well everyone, thank you for the marvelous reviews! I'll shut up now and let you read! And this one's a bit on the long side… :D

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Thorongil

By Sarah and Hannah (Siri)

(disclaimers, explanations, and summaries 

available at the top of chapter 1)

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Chapter 7

Attack on Two Fronts

The night sky was cloudless, giving an endless view of a canopy full to bursting with stars, and no moon to detract from their brilliance. A constant rustling of wind through long grass soothed the restless to sleep and melded with the flowing of the Anduin off to the east. On the battlements of the Rohirrim fort a tall man stood at attention, his blue eyes sharp from years of experience, his blonde hair bleached pale by the sun, and his face wrinkled with age and laughter. Now his expression was serious as he frowned into the blackness; he thought he had seen something move, but on this night of wind and shadows, one's senses could not be easily trusted. 

"Is something wrong?" the voice of the marshal queried from behind him. The question was that of an equal to his friend, rather than that of a superior to an underling.

"I'm not—"

A trumpeting shriek split the air, as if some horrible monster, long silenced, was finally being given free reign. Far off towards the great river, a long row of torches suddenly sprang into life, revealing in a nightmarish flash of reality the vague shapes that had made their way through the dark and over the borders. An order was shouted into the air like the crack of a whip, too distant to be deciphered, and with the springing bang of taut ropes and wood abruptly released, four balls flame were thrown into the cool night air.

The two Rohirrim threw themselves to the side as one of the missiles found its mark on the battlements to their left, shattering on the stones and bursting spectacularly outwards in a lethal cloud of flaming debris.

"We're under attack!"

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With a gasp, Morwen sat up in bed, catching up instantly the dagger she kept on her bedside table. A larger hand wrapped itself skillfully over her own, restraining her, as a familiar voice broke through her sleep fogged brain.

"Steelsheen! We must learn to break you of this, or you shall murder me quite by accident someday. Assassins have never been known to knock before they enter, dearest heart."

She smiled weakly, laying the weapon aside again as her husband pulled his cloak about him and went calmly to answer the early summons. A messenger was waiting on the other side of the door and for a few minutes he and his lord held a short and fevered conference — in which the messenger became more urgent and the king more grave by the heartbeat. Finally, as the queen retrieved her own cloak and slipped from the large bed, a roll of parchment was passed in and with a nod Thengel closed the door and turned to her.

"Southrons. They attacked the eastern border of the Wold."

She stared at him, lighting the lamp as if to better detect a jest on his part. "Southrons? At our borders? But we are much too far north, husband—"

"Yet they are here," he assured her, beginning to dress quickly, "and rather more than that, they are no longer *at* the borders, they are past them. The forward fort, was unable to hold back their surprise rush and it was taken, forcing the Marshal, Bronweg, to fall back with only a handful remaining of his men to the forts behind. We are fortunate the enemy did not try to press their attack any further than they did that night, or they might very well have been amongst us today."

Outside their room the household was beginning to rise and behind them there was the creak of a second door opening, but Morwen did not rush for her dagger this time, as the door was only ever used by two people.

"Mother?" Theodwyn murmured sleepily, her golden hair in wild disarray about her small shoulders, and her face awed and frightened. "Why so much-" here she paused for a yawn, "noise?"

Taetho was directly behind her looking considerably more collected in spite of the late hour, and she took in her father's sword and her mother's pale face without a word. "Come, Theodwyn, you know you're not allowed out of bed."

The small blue eyes went wide with bewilderment as she pointed accusingly towards the sounds of people rumbling up and down the stairs of the great house, "Everyone *else* is!"

Thengel stooped, "Do as your sister says; she is right, it is much to early in the morning for you to be awake. I have to leave for a while, so you must mind your mother even more carefully than usual."

"I wish I could go." She sighed, yawning again.

"You are your mother's daughter," he murmured warmly. "Off you go now, little one."

The girl smiled lopsidedly, nodded, and, not yet awake enough to be too curious, allowed herself to be escorted out. Taetho returned a few minutes later, sliding her cloak over her shoulders. She didn't ask what had transpired, or where her father was going, but merely said cryptically over her shoulder on her way out, "Breakfast."

Morwen waited until her daughter was gone, then asked worriedly, "Can our forts hold them?"

"Not without aid. Men have already been sent to reinforce them from the outposts farther west and south, but this message is nearly two days old, and Ilúvatar only knows what may have transpired since then. I will have to gather reinforcements before I go."

His wife nodded. "And I?"

"You must remain and rule in my stead, Morwen. If the enemy at the Gap passes Théoden, and I do not think it will, you must take Taetho and Theodwyn to safety in Dunharrow. We are badly outnumbered in this fight, so I must take as many men as I can, but I will not leave any of our borders undefended, so make your mind at ease about that."

Now they were moving quickly down the stone steps, catching sounds of an even greater commotion in the stables as the king's own éored made ready to ride with him to war.

"Will that be enough?" Morwen asked, not truly wanting an answer.

"Nay, it will not, but I have also sent a messenger to beseech Steward Ecthelion to send us aid, and I have great hopes that the long alliance between our two lands will not prove empty now." He did not speak aloud what they were both feeling: that if the Southrons had reached the Wold, Gondor may have already been laid low. He spoke on forcefully, "*When* that help arrives, send it directly to me, with whatever extra supplies you deem necessary."

"I will do as the king commands." She answered gracefully, restraining her personal feelings in the presence of the soldiers.

His eyes communicated his trust as he turned and made ready to mount his steed.

"Father!" Taetho came suddenly through the heavy doors, a neatly wrapped gray bundle in her hands. "Your breakfast — it's as small as I could pack it."

He kissed his hand and rested it on her head, then took the offering gratefully, "My thanks; it was well thought of, daughter. Help your mother; you are eldest now."

"Yes." She nodded gravely, and stepped away.

Giving his wife one last look, he shouted the command to move forward. There was an echoing clatter of hoof beats against stone that rattled round the courtyard, a clink of bridle and bit, a short neigh, and they were gone.

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"Lieutenant, if you must insist on pacing, could you at least do so with a different expression on your face?" Thorongil's tone was mild, covering completely the frustration his subordinate was certain must be lurking there. Still, if the captain was not going to show his irritation, it was not Duurben's place to fume on his behalf.

"Yes, Captain." He came to a halt and straightened his face.

Thorongil's eyebrow rose, "If I may ask, what troubles you? Besides the obvious." His hand gestured briefly towards the valley. The land about them sloped in three different stages, first running flat, then dipping downwards, then running flat again — and here they had made their camp — then sloping down again, and finally leveling out into a large valley where the two armies had met. There could faintly been seen hints of it between the outcroppings of stone and patches of wood.

"Sir, I," the man hesitated, weighing the question over in his mind, then pressed on abruptly, "I am frustrated at the lack of respect given your experience — both on the field and off of it."

The captain's other eyebrow rose, surprised at his companion's vehemence, "What?"

"We all of us know that you are perfectly capable of leading the entire army, quite aside from any smaller companies, and it seems to me that the Lord Denethor is misusing you badly to keep you on sentry duty! Furthermore, to split up all but four of our company amongst the other captains as he has done—"

"Duurben!" Thorongil silenced him sternly, putting up a hand to stem the tide of angry words. "I thank you for your loyalty, but I fear it is growing misplaced. The reason we fight is to protect Gondor and its people, not to further the fame of Captain Thorongil. Never that." There was a pause before he added, "And in this task we are under the authority of the Steward and his son. If Lord Denethor deems it best to place us here, then this is what we must do, and to the best of our ability. To accept such orders is the role of captain as well as soldier, for an army is only as useful as its members are trustworthy. Do not forget that."

Duurben stood silently under the rebuke, feeling shamed and wondering how it was that this man, who was not native to Duurben's land, could muster such feelings for it. There had been a flash in his eyes, like a flame long buried beneath the embers of centuries, and it was a fire not often to be seen in the eyes of those have no home.

Thorongil sighed, looking older than the thirty years Duurben presumed him to be. "I must check the perimeter. Call Beren over to watch the center line; and then —"

His words were cut off by an ear-splitting battle yell, echoing down to them; Thorongil turned sharply, wrenching his sword free and staring in horror. A straight, unbroken line of Southrons, stretched the length of the rise behind them; now they charged as one body, their scarlet robes a premonition of the destruction to come. 

And as they let out a second cry of triumph, a new sound echoed up from the valley over all: a trumpeting that shook the hearts of the enemy and demanded aid of the ally. The Horn of Gondor.

"Denethor." Thorongil breathed.

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The pale, but strong fingers of the future Steward played along his sword hilt, resting there with an experience bespeaking his skill in its use, and his steel gray eyes showed satisfaction. Ahead of him he could see the Southron line faltering, being pushed back before the onslaught of Gondor's troops. Whoever was commanding the apposing army had made at least three bad mistakes, and Denethor was growing hopeful that this newest group of attacks could be staved off within a week or more; he wished to return to his home as soon as might be.

To his left he heard a loud trumpet, and his gaze darted in its direction, picking out the gigantic Southron war beast amongst the trees and his own men swarming about its feet. Due to the first of the Southron general's mistakes, most of these monsters had been slain in the first assault, but clearly not all of them.

Calmly he summoned a messenger, "Tell the men there to back away; attacking the beast thus is pointless and will only endanger lives needlessly. Summon Captain Elfnar; he will dispose of it."

The messenger obeyed without question, and Denethor wondered whether now would be a fair time to inspect the battle line closer and encourage his men. Climbing briefly to the top of a convenient outcropping, he paused to survey the line from a better angle. A line of green: his own men, flush with a line of gold and scarlet: the Haradrim, and beyond a clean expanse of grass and trees, drifting off into the distance. Except where a new row of scarlet had just arisen— 

The Southron general had not been completely incompetent: a second line of men, hidden until now by the foliage, was coming in to reinforce the faltering Southron troops.

With a mind numbing wrench the tables had been turned, and Gondor was fearfully outnumbered, with only Captain Magor's men still at the camp to aid them. Reaching suddenly for the one item of his gear he had seldom used for more than an ornament, Denethor put to his lips the horn that had been carried by his sires for generations. The one thing that could summon him the help he needed in so short a time. He gave a long blast, and turned his head, as if hoping to see his help already coming.

The only sight that greeted his eyes was a thin strand of scarlet, draped over the highest ridge behind the camp. He was surrounded.

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Duurben stumbled as he ran, the message he had to deliver still ringing in his ears with the familiar accents of his captain. It was only his legs, Magor's men, and Thorongil's plan against hundreds now, and the thought made Duurben weak at the knees. He had never been a positive man; more inclined to predict doom than peace, to grow angry rather than to accept a blow, and more likely to weep over a loss than laugh at a jest. But it was a fault he could not allow to deter him now.

Captain Magor was already mustering his troops, and to the man's credit, they appeared nearly ready to meet the ambush as Duurben panted up.

"What is it?" demanded the captain gruffly.

"Sir, Captain Thorongil says to deploy your men on an angle down the slope to that first patch of beeches."

"Oh does he? No reason given?" Magor's pace did not slow, but his forehead creased. He had a great respect for Thorongil, though the man *was* a foreigner... "Never mind, I will see to it. Anything else?"

"He says to make sure the line holds. That is all."

Magor had already barked out several short and direct orders, and now he nodded brusquely, "You can tell him that it will hold."

The painfully thin line of soldiers stood stretched on a sloping angle, their faces grim and their weapons held at the ready as the crimson attack swept through the camp and towards them, still yelling. Thorongil was on the end closest to the trees, Duurben and Beren on either side of him. With a ripple effect like an eddying current, the weapons of the defenders whipped up to meet the Southrons, and the line trembled under the impact.

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Denethor had leapt to his horse and now rode furiously up and down the line, shouting encouragement to his troops, and continuing to blow on his horn. Though he no longer expected help, it seemed to give his men strength to hear it, as if false hope was indeed better than no hope. With the added numbers, the Haradrim began to turn back the tide and drive the men of Gondor back towards the first slopes. 

On the left flank, Captain Minardil was beginning to drift too far to the east and casting about for the first soldier available, Denethor sent a message to remind him of the swamps. Captain Elfnar was ordered away from disposing of the war beast, and was instead dispatched for the opposite end of the field to replace a fallen captain. Denethor had nearly reached the middle of the field when a sudden thought struck him and he turned hastily back.

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Duurben was lost in a maelstrom of sight and sound; flashing gold and clanging steel drowning his senses and only occasionally relieving him with a brief vision of Thorongil nearby. Not Thorongil the captain, but Thorongil the desperate; and his desperation seemed to lend his blade new strength and his mind new clarity. The change had come to Duurben as well, but he could not see it, and merely fought on, unable to spare a thought beyond 'the line must hold'.

Thorongil dropped low to the ground, ducking under another wide swing of a Southron scimitar and feeling the warmth of the sun in his dark hair as he slashed upwards. The brunt of the blow skipped off the Southron's helmet, but it knocked him full length on the grass and he was trampled by his own companions in their rush. A second man fell, stabbed once, followed by a third and a fourth. The fifth ran forward with his spear held full out in front, aiming for the captain's back, but Thorongil turned almost without considering, and as the smooth shaft passed him, he clove it in two, and then did the same for the man's helm. He saw Duurben, and then couldn't see him anymore, and as he fought on, he wondered if this plan could possibly work.

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"Just drive it, I don't care how," Denethor snapped, frustration tingling in every bone as the soldier gazed at him in shock.

"Y-yes sir," the young man stumbled on the reply, and clenched his spear in trepidation. The war beasts of the Southrons were terrible creatures, and this monster still carried the heavy stones of a war tower on its broad back. "Come, men," the soldier called, more strongly than he felt, "the lord wants us to return this creature to its owners."

The beast snorted and bellowed, shying away from the virtual forest of spears, and then with stumbling and earth shaking steps, it pounded through the one gap in the ring, its small eyes red and its small mind incapable of noting anything around it.

The ranks of Gondor opened up in shock as the monster pounded towards them from behind, but they got scarcely a glimpse of tattered scarlet before the creature had passed them and rumbled on.

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King Muindor was at the height of his blood lust as his scimitar sang in his hands, and the plume on his helmet waved in the sunlight. He looked up at the loud trumpet of one of his war beasts, and then suddenly the creature was amongst his own men. Everywhere there were terrified yells as the monster trampled over those who had once subjugated it, goring with its horns, bellowing its maddened animal hatred, and ripping great gaps in the lines of the Haradrim.

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Captain Magor had no notion what Thorongil had hoped to achieve with his tactic, but he had ordered his men to hold firm, and they had done so. Fighting with the strength of three or more, they filled the gaps when they appeared, and repulsed the enemy so effectively, that the Southrons began to ease down the line, searching for an easier passage. Soon there were none left fighting near the camp, and when at last the group nearest Thorongil's end of the line reached the trees, their leader made a sudden decision to leave these few men alone and move on to catch the larger army from behind before the intended ambush was ruined.

Duurben started as he saw whole groups of the Haradrim making their way around the end of the defenders' line and into the beeches, without Thorongil even seeming to notice.

"Sir!" he shouted, gesturing urgently, but Thorongil merely cut down another soldier and paid no heed.

The flow grew, and soon the bulk of the Southron company was running down the hill behind the men of Gondor, their way open to set upon the whole left flank of the army.

Captain Magor came running up, ordering his men to follow and cut them off again, his face red from heat and anger. "Hurry, before they clear the trees and reach Captain Minardil!"

Thorongil put out a restraining hand, catching his fellow captain's arm, "I wouldn't advise it, Magor. They will no longer be any trouble, not at that speed."

Magor stared, but cast another glance down the hillside and paused, as if a memory had come back to him. Slowly, he relaxed, letting his grip on his sword loosen just slightly. "No," he agreed, "not at that speed."

As the Southrons careened down the hill, the backs of their prey somewhere beyond the low trees before them, their first row found themselves tangled in wide, marshy thickets. Brambles throve amongst the brackish water and moss coated mud, and when the deep pits were discovered beneath the pools by unsuspecting feet, the soldiers were too encumbered with armor to pull themselves free.

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The enemy had not yet been driven back, however, and it was many hours of long fighting and death before Thorongil, Magor and Denethor met again.

Denethor had re-gathered his troops on his own horse, rallying the lagging flanks before they crumbled into a rout, and steadying the center when Muindor made a last attempt at a bold charge. His breath was short from winding the horn, and his horse was nearly dropping beneath him, but there was victory in his eyes as he recalled his successful retrieval of the day.

Magor and Thorongil had each taken a portion of Magor's men and deployed them as they saw fit, mostly by filling deficiencies in the lines, and occasionally by striking suddenly out at the enemy's weak points and forcing them to spread out their ranks. Magor especially had made many a bold move that day, and it was chiefly due to him that the enraged monster Denethor had so successfully unleashed had not come back to cause further damage to their own men. It now lay dead, a hideous rotting corpse amongst a field full of carrion. Thorongil was perhaps the most disheveled of the three, though he had done naught else but fight amongst the other men after the skirmish on the hill. He was bleeding here and there, but not too badly, and Duurben had managed to escape almost unscathed.

"I have heard that Muindor lost nearly a third of his men, sire," Magor announced briefly, "I do not think we have much to fear from him until tomorrow."

"You are sure he will renew his attack?" Thorongil asked, pushing his hair from his face and not seeming to notice that he had added more grime to it.

"Yes," Denethor's answer was clipped. "Muindor is not one to give up over a small matter such as loss of troops. We shall have to fight him to the last twenty men before he will decide to leave the fight for another year."

Duurben grimaced and glanced at Beren, who, with a few others, had been left in charge of the remaining supplies in the camp after Thorongil had been ordered into battle. Beren had used his time well and, while they waited for fresh supplies, had managed to collect enough food for all out of what had not been spoiled. It was this the captains now sat down to enjoy, and though they still had the job of preparing their army for another day of battle, they were glad the outcome of the day was not worse. Thorongil even managed a smile when Magor asked him why he ate his food so carefully, as if he had been raised in the court of a king.

When the messenger arrived on horseback, the three men were only just rising, and Denethor took his seat again to read the missive. Magor and Thorongil waited respectfully; Duurben wondered why Denethor's forehead seemed to smooth as he read, as if with relief. Finally he laid the message aside and announced calmly, "Captain Thorongil, you are needed in Minas Tirith. The Steward has an errand for you, and you must leave at once; you would be wise to take a horse."

Thorongil nodded, hiding his confusion as well as he could, and then he caught the look in Duurben's face and nearly laughed: there was a suspicious glint in his eyes, as though he again suspected that injustice was being meted out to his captain. Not necessarily a good frame of mind to leave him in…

"I will go at once, Lord Denethor. Perhaps, would it be acceptable for me to take my lieutenant with me? I believe another man of my company, Beren, can be safely left in command of the sentries."

Denethor glanced at Duurben, and perhaps caught the look in his eyes as well, for he nodded in agreement, gave orders for another horse to be readied, and Thorongil left. Duurben followed after him in bewilderment over what had just transpired.

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TBC…


	8. Mission to Rohan

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*Sarah eases her way back onto the thread* That went as well as could be expected! Honestly, we really didn't want to upset everyone so much; hence Meldir's very brief role. It was only when we introduced him and several people (especially *ahem* Lina) decided they liked him that Hannah and I looked at each other and groaned, "Oh no."

Gwyn: *writes down 'organized', 'fast paced', and 'effective' on little slips of paper and pins them to the wall above her desk* Thank you so much!! That quite made my day. As for Legolas… *sigh* Not for a while, I'm afraid!

Lina: *mouth falls open* You have a knack for leaving me speechless. Oh yeah, speechless except for the times when I laugh and spit stuff all over my computer screen! *glances at chainsaw she has carefully removed from story as being 'too modern' and hefts it* This, for example! Hannah and I practically couldn't stop giggling; not a pretty picture for people who are supposed to be sober authoresses. ;D As for everything else: Yup, Morwen loves her hubby, 'Denethor' and 'Boromir' are rather similar, Captain Thorongil needs to go and do good, and Hannah *didn't* do it. Koth did. ;) I'm glad you liked the farewell scene!

Eomer: *watches Rohirrim whistling* Yeah, their loyal, their morale is high, and they couldn't carry a tune in a bucket… *smiles* Still, there are worse things! You could have *two* Linas to watch. And what's so great about the south anyway? *smiles brightly as she glances at newspaper and realizes that hiring someone else to keep the plot safe would cost WAY more than she has* As for the cool whip: don't worry, we won't be getting back to Legolas for a while.

None: Thanks! I'm afraid Legolas won't show up again for a while, and he and Aragorn won't meet for even longer! Sorry; we didn't mean for it to turn out that way, but that's just how the chapters fell out.

LadyIsabelle: You're welcome! And we don't mind; we frequently ramble ourselves. *tries to imagine watching a horror movie three times and shivers* I'm just glad you were able to write in English! ;)

phoenixqueen: *sighs in relief and hugs phoenix* We're beginning to make sense? Oh good! I hope it will only get easier from here (though I can't vouch for the ending stuff). And yeah, Denethor is a somewhat of a jerk (I'm trying to be mild here because I _really_ don't like the guy), and yeah, Legolas' part will become clear… eventually! *adds phoenix to list of 'People For Whom I Need To Nag Chloe* Will do! Needless to say, I'm on the top of this list, so I won't easily forget. To reassure you: she *is* working on it, but such masterpieces take a lot of time to finish. ;)

Asen: *hugs Asen* You like Duurben? Thanks! He was one of those characters that started out as just a Guy For Thorongil To Talk To, and grew into a walking/talking person of his own. :) And I'm so glad you liked Theodwyn!! If we managed to inspire nonsense-speech, we know we must have done fairly well. ;) We didn't make up Morwen's name (or her nickname, Steelsheen, for that matter), but yes, Taetho's name was our invention. Her existence wasn't, though -- we know from the appendices that Theoden was the only boy in a family of five. Fortunately, I don't think he minds! :)

reginabean: Sorry about that! Hannah and I recently became very interested in Middle Earth geography, and I guess it leaked into our writing… If it helps any, what has happened so far can be followed on the regular maps out of the book, and for the rest of the story we've gone ahead and drawn maps for you! There will be links to them at the beginning of the chapters where they'll be useful (in fact, there's one at the beginning of chapter 9!). :)

w: *blushes solid red and grins like an idiot* Wow! Do you have any idea how much you made our day? You liked our flow (which, since there's two of us writing this, is a wonderful compliment); you liked Morwen's bit with the dagger (a pet piece of mine; can't quite explain why); you liked Thengel's whole family (a *serious* favorite of ours, even though their involvement as a family is nearing its end); you liked our language (which, after reading Tolkien once a year since I was about ten, is really reassuring); you liked our battle (I've already said how wary I've always been of battle scenes); you liked our characterizations (one of those all time 'compliments you would most like paid to your fanfic' kinds of things); you liked our handling of Denethor (which, since I am an absolute anti-Denethor person, was hard because I really *wanted* to paint him just as black as you described, but knew I couldn't without destroying the character); you liked our taking Thorongil out of the lime-light (Thank You!); and above and beyond and all-around-best of all: you said we were _subtle_!! That is probably the best compliment (or seriously within the top five) I will ever receive on my writing! Thank you so much! Oh yes, and I forgot to ask last time: what was the grammar mistake exactly?

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sabercrazy: *looks innocent, hiding behind her back the darts which she has been throwing at a photo of Denethor on the wall* Irony? Great heavens! We wanted to show that Denethor was really the superior of the two! *ahem* Sorry. Sarcasm runs in my family. *chucks several darts, hits Denethor on the nose* And feel free to clobber him all you like; he has officially departed from the fic! *smiles and leaves saber, Hannah, and the chicken to figure out their differences*

Thank you all SO MUCH for reviewing! :)

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Thorongil

By Sarah and Hannah (Siri)

(disclaimers, explanations, and summaries 

available at the top of chapter 1)

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Chapter 8

Mission to Rohan

On horses it took the two men a little less than four days to return, and they were soon back within the tall white walls. Leaving Duurben to tend to their horses outside the inner ring of the city, where such animals were forbidden, Thorongil made his way quickly to the Steward's hall.

"Captain Thorongil, you have been prompt." Ecthelion nodded approvingly. "It is well." Reaching to the table beside him, he lifted a worn scroll with a familiar emblem imprinted in the sealing wax. "I have received a request for aid."

"Against what?" Thorongil asked, frowning at the small scroll with concern.

"I fear it may well be the Haradrim whose passage we noted several weeks ago; it seems the Rohirrim never received my warning, though I cannot say why. Whatever the reason, though I do not hesitate in granting them the aid they need, I cannot take it myself. It is necessary for me to stay here in Minas Tirith, and my son is currently needed on our southern borders, as you well know. Therefore I must choose someone else whom I trust to retrieve several companies of troops from our northern borders and lead them to help our allies. It is the most I can do for them, I fear, for we are badly beset, and men are constantly needed."

Thorongil bowed, "I am grateful for your trust, sire, and will gladly do as you order, but I feel obligated to ask: is there no one of more skill who might not be sent?"

Ecthelion's eyebrow rose slightly, "I thought you might take that view, given your loyalty to that country," here he tapped the scroll lightly, indicating the senders. "But it is in fact that loyalty and experience which I am hoping to use. Your knowledge of the people and particularly the language, as well as your abilities in battle, should make you a more than adequate leader in this undertaking."

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The biting chill of oncoming winter whistled through the courtyard, curving over walls and, finding no purchase on the smooth face, drifting away back towards the black land. A stillness pervaded the place, the few sentries on duty standing silently in the face of the cold, and there had not been birds in Minas Tirith for many a year. 

They had long been a city under siege, though what form the enemy would take was still not yet clear.

Over by the stables, two men had been conversing for nearly five minutes, when one of them sputtered, "We're already leaving?" and broke the quiet around him like a pane of glass. His companion looked determined.

"*I* am. You do not have to come unless you wish to."

"You requested me, did you not?"

"I have already said that, but that doesn't mean you are obligated."

"It certainly does. Though I'm not sure why you did it…"

Thorongil slung his travel pack over a fresh horse. "We'll be doing a good deal of traveling, through woods chiefly. I seem to remember you being rather fond of them."

Duurben frowned: if Thorongil had done this for him simply because he had complained of the walls of Minas Tirith, he would never live it down.

"Because of that, I thought you might make a good guide." Thorongil continued lightly, buckling on a new bridle. "You do know your way through a forest, do you not?"

"Yes sir, I do." Duurben agreed in relief, and pulled down a saddle of his own. "Very well. Where exactly are we going?"

"We'll stop at the northern border post first and retrieve the troops Lord Ecthelion is sending." His eyes took on briefly a far away look, as if remembering a scene from some memory, "Then we ride straight on to Edoras. I do not wish to be too late."

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"Captain, I believe I see the border post."

Thorongil glanced up from where he was throwing dirt on the fire and nodded, "I should hope so."

Duurben made his way down the tree he had turned into an impromptu lookout perch, stood silent for a moment before his commander, a determined look on his face, before he finally spoke again. "Sir, I would like to say that you need less help in the woods than you do on the battle field, and you practically need none there."

Thorongil sighed. He liked Duurben very much and had appreciated his company, but if there was one thing that was beginning to trouble him more than the other man's insatiable respect for rank, it was the curiosity that was beginning to show through it.

Duurben was still speaking. "You walk through trees not simply as if you had been born amongst them, but rather as if you breathe the same, or think the same as they do." Here Thorongil gave him the standard look of disbelief, trying to hide his faint irritation with himself, but the soldier continued on. "There are things you notice that even a skilled woodsman often overlooks, and yet you leave but little evidence of your own passing, even when we make camp."

"Clearly I have not given you nearly enough to occupy yourself with; maybe I should allot you the larger of the two loads to carry."

If he had thought this would deter his companion, he was wrong, but if he had imagined Duurben capable of asking him flat out where he had learned his woodcraft, he was still more wrong. Having laid out the evidence of his superior's skills and oddities, the man sat back and simply waited — with a stare that was extraordinarily hard to ignore.

//And I thought only dwarves were that stubborn.// Thorongil winced inwardly. He lifted his companion's pack and tossed it to him, unaltered in weight, and then strapped on his own, wondering on the side why Gondor had always been so careful of its horses. They had been forced to leave theirs at the last message post and travel the rest of the way on foot.

"I shall be glad to return to Rohan," he said wryly, starting off into the trees.

There was no reply.

He continued rather louder than was necessary, "In Rohan, the very youngest learn to ride, and a man deprived of his favorite horse often will mourn as one who has lost a dear friend."

Still there was silence.

"I had often ridden horses before, but I was amazed at what an art they had made out of the riding and the taming of their beasts. Even the most fiery animals can be tamed to respond to the softest word, and those are the most valued, in battle and in pleasure."

The stillness was growing to deafening proportions.

//If I don't hit him over the head with the water flask, only the Valar's intervention shall be the cause.//

With a sigh that was more of a snort, he turned, "Duurben—" He stopped. Duurben was no where to be seen.

Automatically, he tested his pack, judging whether it would be best to discard it or keep it, and then he pulled his bow free and drew out an arrow. He had become a better shot in recent years, but if a creature had taken his companion, he would have heard it; perhaps Duurben had taken his silent demand to a new level?

"Duurben?" He called, retracing his steps back toward their camp. He didn't have to go far before he stumbled over his lieutenant's body, sprawled amongst the leaves at the base of an oak. "Duurben!" He snapped, now urgent with fear as he pulled his friend over, searching rapidly for a sign of what had felled him, his hands examining the green garments and finding nothing, not even a drop of blood. Finally, he saw it: a dart in his neck. Short, made of dark wood, fletched with pale green leaves, very stiff, and coated in some dark purplish substance. He cast the thing aside, his eyes glancing around again as he wondered how close the enemy was, and who could possibly be so foolhardy as to drug soldiers of Gondor within miles of their own fort—

*shzip*

He threw himself down flat on top of Duurben as a second missile lodged itself in the trunk at the level where his head had been. Catching his companion's arms, he rolled the both of them down the incline behind the huge tree and shoved Duurben under the embankment, hoping that the other man did not need any immediate attention, and up above he heard the whisper-like sounds of skilled feet moving slowly.

There was a low shout, like a guttural battle yell, and suddenly a squat shape dropped in front of him, a short blow-pipe held in its lips. The dart zipped out, grazing his hair in passing, and his own shot left the bow, catching the creature — for it was too misshapen to be a man — in the leg. It fell, crying and cursing, and above came the sounds of at least three more running to its aid. Catching Duurben's wrists, Thorongil hauled him onto his shoulders, and set off at a heavy run, wishing now that he had left his pack behind.

They were not close enough to the outpost to flee there, so his senses groped for some easier means of concealment, all the while hearing the pursuit draw nearer. A short brook opened beneath his feet and he stumbled in the soft earth, but pushed himself through, and up the far slope. Duurben's arm caught in some brambles, but the captain pulled it free, wincing at the blood he drew unintentionally from the unconscious soldier's hand. Still the creatures came on, faster than he. He slid down the far side of the slope, barely keeping his balance, and finally caught sight of a long hollow log, half buried in fern. The decision was brief: if the enemy caught him, then at least Duurben would hopefully wake and carry the message through alone. With a hasty shove, he slid his friend inside the dead tree, cast the foliage over the entrance, and set off at a dead run.

Now freed from the burden, he was light in his escape, sliding through the undergrowth like a fish through water. But his pursuers, while having missed the place where his friend lay hidden, never once lost his own trail. His dark hair whipped in his face as he cast a glance behind him, but there was no one in sight; they were staying well hidden, even in their hunt. His boots pounded between the plants, carrying him on as fast as he could run, and then abruptly, as he pushed through a screen of trees, the ground fell away.

Flipping almost onto his chest, he caught a protruding tree root to halt his fall, and surveyed breathlessly the ravine that had opened beneath him as his feet found a foothold in the loose rubble that made up the sides. Down at the bottom a river ran, of which the brook from earlier must have been a mere tributary, for with the winter rains the wide stream had swollen and overflowed its banks. It was with no small sense of irony that he realized that the deepest portion was apparently directly beneath him. //I wonder why Duurben just happened to miss this particular landmark.// He mused vaguely.

There was another *shzip* as a fresh dart slid past his head, and knowing full well that if he remained to be shot, he would only fall anyway, he jumped. For a moment the chill air whistled in his ears, and then he hit the icy water and submerged. The cold cut through his thick clothing like knives, and the moment his feet touched the bottom, he pushed off, coming into the air almost immediately — where a sudden breeze nearly knocked the breath out of him as it turned his damp clothing stiff.

Gasping slightly, he hauled himself out and took off into the trees again, just hearing the last wild shot of his pursuers as it nicked a tree behind him.

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It was late evening before Thorongil finally slid from his perch in the thick evergreen to land silently amongst the discarded needles at its base. It had taken him nearly all afternoon to make his way downstream to a place where he could climb back out of the rift, and it had taken still longer to return to where he had left Duurben. He had caught neither sight nor sound of the enemy since losing them at the river, and he did not wish to ruin his record now.

Moving stealthily in the gathering twilight, he finally reached the fallen tree and slid slowly over to it, his voice a bare whisper, "Duurben…?" 

He should have known the log would be empty. 

"The Valar are having fine sport with me today, I must say." He muttered under his breath, looking around for signs of his companion's departure. "Is it so much to ask of an unconscious man to stay in one place for a few hours?"

Duurben's trail was easy to pick out, even in the gloom, but there would be no moon that night, and the captain had only an hour more, at best. Thorongil moved on, senses still alert for sounds of their strange attackers, and he sighed when he realized that Duurben had also moved off in the direction of the ravine. He reached the thin line of trees and paused, hoping his subordinate had not plunged straight off the edge, when there was the long awaited *hhwookk* of a dart leaving a blow-pipe, and he whirled to see three stumpy and misshapen creatures sitting, or perhaps standing, in the underbrush behind him. The shot had missed him, but even as he drew out his bow, he knew he could not dodge three darts at once. 

There was a breath of warmth behind him, and the feel of a new arrival to the silent conflict standing at his shoulder. Without taking his gaze off the enemy, Thorongil muttered, "There you are."

"Yes sir." Duurben nodded, his voice somewhat hoarse, as if he'd just woken from a deep sleep. "Have you tried talking to them?"

"Not yet. I'm not quite sure what they are." Thorongil admitted, shifting his aim warily.

Whether the creature actually heard what he said, or had merely decided to speak then anyway, neither men knew, but at that moment the figure in the middle made a preliminary sort of grunting noise, and then rasped in a low, guttural tone, "Man lay down bright iron."

His motions cautious, Thorongil put away his bow and drew his sword, laying it on the ground. "We mean you no harm."

Another snort, this one derisive, "Man shoot Ghâ n-mek-bû r; he walk no further to home of wild man. Mâ hg-hâ n-bâ ri demand blood for blood."

"By that logic, I might demand blood from you." Thorongil bit back, feeling a faint sense of indignation sweep over him. "Or was it not you who shot my friend?"

There was a ripple in the short being's stance, as if he were uncomfortable, "Mâ hg-hâ n-bâ ri shoot no man."

"One of you did."

Duurben glanced at his leader, wondering if this sort of attitude was the best one to take with three unknown creatures whose weapons were aimed for their hearts. But though the light was all but gone, he could tell that Thorongil was stained from head to toe by mud, covered in evergreen needles, exhausted, and completely aggravated with the small beings that had delayed him for a whole day. Politeness was not exactly high in his priorities at the moment.

The silence drifted on, with nothing but the low mutters of the strange creatures to fill it, and so Thorongil continued with a sort of impatient thrust to his words, "As neither of your companions have spoken, I can only conclude that 'Ghâ n-mek-bû r' shot my friend himself. If so, that would make my retaliation a payment in its own right, thus leaving no room for you to track us any longer."

Mâ hg-hâ n-bâ ri gave a growl thickly laced with bad temper, "Wild Man want no part of Fighting Man; want only travel own lands without spies following."

Thorongil frowned, wondering what the creatures has mistaken for 'spying', but didn't interrupt.

"Bad smell, bad trail," the wild man snorted, running his gnarled hand over a similarly rough tree trunk. "Man with bright iron drive Wild Man away; so Wild Man go, have new home now. Want no one following. Want no Men there."

"We have no interest in your home," Duurben said flatly, feeling a dizzy spell wash over him, and catching his captain's shoulder for balance.

Thorongil nodded, noting his companion's weakness, and gestured to the west, "Take your friend and go in peace. We will tell the fighting men to let you go, and you can take your time on your way home. No one shall follow."

There was another long silence, then the leader made a wet cluck in the back of his throat, and the three wild men vanished into the foliage, silent as elves. The two companions never clearly saw their faces.

Thorongil let out a sigh, and lifted his sword from the leaves, sheathing it again. When he turned to his lieutenant, he opened his mouth to speak, and then started forward as Duurben reeled with another wave of dizziness. Stumbling, the soldier put his foot back to catch himself and slipped, pitching backwards through the short trees and headfirst into the narrow ravine. Lunging, and nearly throwing himself over the edge in the process, Thorongil grabbed for Duurben's arm, and just managed to catch his wrist and pull him up short before he broke his neck.

"I've been meaning to ask you," the captain said in exasperation, as he shifted his grip and tried to pull his companion up without dislocating his shoulder, "how, in your examination of the land, did you manage to miss such a thing as this?"

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"Duurben, sometimes I wonder if you aren't more difficult to keep track of than even—" Thorongil broke off, smiling as if at old memories, and then shook his head decidedly, "no, most certainly not. But you do seem inclined to give me gray hair before my time."

Duurben looked distressed, "I'm most sorry, Captain, I did not mean to provoke them. I saw something in the bushes, and I may have appeared surprised, but I'm quite sure I didn't advance before they shot me."

"No, *I'm* sorry Duurben." Thorongil waved him aside, "I forgot that you do not understand jesting." The soldier frowned at this assessment, but Thorongil continued without pausing, "As for why they attacked, they struck me as equal parts skittish and secretive. I do not think they come here often — maybe oncoming winter has driven them to new territories for game — but either way, it should be no difficulty to tell the outpost commander to leave them alone; I sincerely doubt they will be back again unless a great need presses."

"But who were they?" Duurben asked, his natural curiosity making him lean in a little closer to their new fire, his eyes questioning.

"I know not." The captain shook his head, tapping his long, thin pipe against his knee. "They reminded me greatly of several stone figures I saw once in Rohan, but I never saw them well enough to determine whether or not they were like enough to be descendants of the originals." He shrugged, unconsciously adopting a tone that seemed much older than he, "Well, Middle Earth grows more crowded with the passing years, not less, and I will be much surprised if many more such things do not find their way out of their shadowed homes before long. If none are more dangerous than these wild men, we shall be most fortunate. But until such time as they challenge us, you must sleep. I do not want you falling into any more rivers tomorrow, for we have been delayed enough." And he smiled again.

Duurben shivered slightly, "At least the water was not deep; I have never learned to swim, I'm afraid. The water was the coldest I have ever felt.

"I know." Thorongil nodded sympathetically, and tossed him an extra blanket from the bedroll.

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The outpost was quiet, the young lieutenant was anxious, and the garrison was empty. Of the several hundred troops that Thorongil was to have retrieved, only twenty remained, and they were not permitted to leave the outpost unguarded. Duurben shifted his pack and glanced at his captain, wondering how he would react to the news.

Thorongil's face was furrowed in a deep frown, and there was worry in his blue eyes as he went over in his head the number of miles between this outpost, and the others. "What about our outpost farther to the west?" He asked aloud, thinking they might just make it that far in time.

The lieutenant looked even more apologetic, "I fear it would do you no good, for both garrisons were summoned to aid in an attack on our far western borders — Captain Handir felt this was the one place from which troops could be spared."

//Well, he was wrong.// Thorongil growled inwardly, though he kept it from his face. "Do you have two horses we could use?"

The young man looked slightly relieved, "Yes, a few, if you have need of them. Several more were recently left here than we usually keep."

"Good, then we will be leaving soon." Thorongil nodded, dismissing the lieutenant and turning back to his companion. As Duurben watched, his face grew drawn and tired. "We must go back to Ecthelion and request further instructions, though I grudge such a delay." It had never occurred to Duurben how much love his captain might hold for a land he had lived in for only seven years, but now it was plain for all to see.

"Sir, if he does send us to a different area for more troops, will we arrive in time to be of any assistance?"

Thorongil sighed, lifting a saddle bag down from the stable wall and moving the contents of his pack into it, "No, but we cannot abandon this alliance; we must at least show the King of Rohan plainly that help was sent… even if too late"

"But if that is all we are doing this for — I wonder, is it wise to waste time gathering others, who will never have a chance to fight?"

Thorongil paused, staring at him, "What do you mean?"

"You were quite as useful a leader to the Rohirrim as you have been here in Gondor; what if you were to offer your own personal abilities in the absence of any other help? Would that not serve the purpose of proving that our alliance still holds? It would at least be well for them to know that no further help is coming, so that they can plan accordingly."

Thorongil carried his bag to the nearest horse and slung it over behind the saddle, then stood beside the animal, his hands resting on its warm chestnut flanks as he considered. Then with a short nod he turned back, and his forehead was smooth. "Duurben, my friend — for that is what you have become, if you know it not — you're right. We will go to Rohan ourselves." And he nodded, mounted, and rode out into the courtyard, leaving Duurben to blink with surprise like an owl in the daylight. He wondered how many of Duurben's rules of rank he had just broken, and though he knew he might still be too late to make any difference in this new battle's outcome, he smiled.

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TBC…


	9. Familiar Faces

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Sarah here again! : )

EVERYONE: _Go to Siri's bio and there is a link to a map which might help you understand where everything is now. We'll be giving you more detailed alterations of this map as you need them later on (I think we have three in all), but just so you know: most of the rest of this fic takes place in the area shown here. : )_

reginabean: *bobs her head in time to regina's bouncing* There's your map; hope it helps! And I'm thrilled you liked that line (one of those pet pieces of mine that I wondered if anybody would enjoy). : )

None: Thanks I'm glad you're still enjoying this, in spite of Legolas' absence! And you liked my pet line also! *big smile* As for *how* Legolas and Thorongil will meet… *thinks on it* no, no clue, I'm afraid. ; )

Rainydayz: *shocked expression* What makes you think we hate you?? We don't hate you in the slightest! *thinks a moment* Oh. Is this because we are making you wait for Legolas to meet up with Thorongil? That's not hatred, that's plot! ; ) Thank you for liking Duurben, in spite of your doubts about his survival (which, if it helps any, we said at the beginning that only two people die in this fic). And, uh, your welcome for the humor… *pats dejected, Meldir-missing reader on the back* We're REALLY sorry about that; we never even thought that so many people would wind up liking him! As for 'when' on Thorongil and Legolas… um… still not for a while. *looks guilty*

Lina: *laughs long enough to make her cat worry* Leave poor Thorongil alone! He as enough he'll have to deal with here. ; ) You'll be interested to know that Hannah and I have picked up a sort of pattern in discussing your reviews: (H) *coming in to find Sarah hunched over laptop with an I'm-reading-something-too-goofy-to-be-allowed expression on her face* Did Lina post? (S) *long pause as she considers whether she can answer without laughing*…. yup. (H) And? (S) You know Lina! (H) *laughs, even though she hasn't even read the review yet* Oh no! (S) Yup. ; D

Eomer: *dodges falling toast* My condolences on your horse. Patience is a virtue, yes, as we have reason to know from living in the same house with Chloe! You are in South Carolina? How funny! We are north of you! *dodges more toast* Yeah -- morale -- very high indeed… *flees* ; )

Gwyn: Thank you! Though I think a lot of our success comes from there being two of us. Sort of like Sio does mush and Cassia does torture; only our roles are not quite so easily defined, and Chloe completely blows _both _of us out of the water with her angst. I guess our titles say most of it: Hannah is the crazy, starry-eyed visionary (and she usually introduces the weird plot twists and torture scenarios ), and I'm the bookish, plausibility-mad realist (and I usually add the Tolkien history and hammer out the boring practical stuff, like believability and editing). ; )

Mercredi: Ek! I know too well the vagaries of internet connections. ; ) Thank you so much! We really weren't planning for anyone to get so upset over Meldir's death, so I'm glad you at least thought it was balanced! Furthermore I'm glad you approved of our new not-evil-for-the-sake-of-being-evil bad guy attempts. As for Legolas… *begins to hum her 'I'm not allowed to say' hum mournfully* The following chapter here is (I'm sad to say) pretty much the last we see of Thengel's family in Edoras, but I am extremely pleased that you enjoyed them so much while they were there!! : ) Of all the questions you *don't* expect to hear from female authors: "Can we _do_ women??" is probably the oddest, yet it came in quite frequently in this fic; we constantly found ourselves psychoanalyzing and second-guessing every move each of them made, wondering if we were getting too close to (*gasp* you guessed it) MARY SUE!! We wanted realism, and above all: strong *women* (like Tolkien wrote), not women trying to be men (a different thing all together). All that to say: your words were very welcome, and no small relief! Now if we can only keep it up… ; ) *grins from ear to ear* A movie? Cool! : D The Wild Men kind of surprised us as well; sort of just popped out of the Tolkien Companion entry I was reading and into our fic, and as it happens: Thorongil's delays are what are keeping all you readers from seeing Legolas! So it's not our fault that it's taking this long. Last of all: Duurben. Talk about Frankenstein; no sooner was Duurben invented (_solely _for the purpose of having someone for Thorongil to talk to in the first scene), then he immediately began to *gasp* take on a character, and furthermore *'nuther gasp* went so far as to follow Thorongil all the way to Rohan! We couldn't have stopped him if we wanted to. As for his skills in woods: don't worry, he really isn't a villain in disguise sent to delay Thorongil with unexpected ravines, or anything; I think we figured any river so well hidden that Thorongil could fall into like that was too well hidden for Duurben to see (especially since you're right: he has no where near ranger-like skills in the woods)! Thorongil was just teasing him about missing it. ; ) And Duurben's possible death… er, I can't say, but maybe it'll help if I tell you we really aren't the type of fic-writers that enjoy slaying all our characters! Really! ; ) I'll shut up and post now…

staran: Thanks! And I'm afraid Legolas and Thorongil won't be meeting for a while… Sorry 'bout that!

Starfleet Hobbit: Speechless, eh? Wow! Good enough for us! ; )

Asen: *watches Asen fly* Cool! And thanks a bunch! Sorry about your comp; want me to come kick it for ya? : P

w: Whoopsie! Fixing the Duurben-in-the-ravine thing was one of the items on my 'To Edit' list, but it looks like I missed it… Basically, we decided that by grabbing Duurben, Thorongil kept him from landing head-first and possibly breaking his neck, but that in their current position (T halfway into the ravine himself, and D hanging off his arm) they wouldn't be able to pull themselves out without Duurben taking a dip. So we dunked him after all. Thank you for cutting us slack on that; hope the explanation makes sense! : ) Many thanks on behalf of Duurben!! Perhaps it is because we are never quite sure if we can take credit for Thorongil and Legolas (because they aren't our characters) that we are always thrilled when people like our OCs! The only thing is: I'm not sure if we can completely take credit for Duurben either; like a good OC, no sooner did we invent him (originally just to talk with Thorongil at the beginning and then leave the fic *snort*) than he proceeded to have a history, and a personality, and several other things he was never intended to have! : D And thank you too on the subject of Aragorn's frustration!! I suppose that goes under the heading of 'attempts at keeping him human in spite of elven upbringing and rabid fans', or something. Last of all: thanks for the grammar heads up!! You weren't a nag at all, and I'm glad to know that for future story writing. : ) All in all? You continue to make my day with your reviews. I'm so glad you're enjoying this!!

sabercrazy: I guess he's never heard that one since you're right: he *does* seem to make quite a habit of walking off precipices! ; ) The villains in these stories seldom know what they're in for; they see 'elf' and 'ranger', never 'trouble' and 'disaster'. As for torture; well yeah, naturally! It won't be Cassia/Sio stuff, but it should be fun! : D And fortunately (or unfortunately?), Hannah was not the one posting today after all! Many of the beginning chapters on this particular fic wound up being mine… : P

And here at last is the post… *smiles brightly*

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Thorongil

By Sarah and Hannah (Siri)

(disclaimers, explanations, and summaries 

available at the top of chapter 1)

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Chapter 9

Familiar Faces

"Pleeease, Ta'tho!" The small girl bobbed up and down on her small feet, her hood falling over her face and blinding her momentarily, causing her to bump into the passage wall. With a sigh, Taetho shifted the stack of linen to her other hip and straightened her sister's cloak, rubbing the child's nose where she had scratched it on the stones, and smiling in spite of herself at the way Theodwyn absolutely refused to hold still.

"I'm sorry, little sister, but I have much to do! Mother is quite busy with the affairs of the country, and it's my task to see that the house stays in order." She shifted the linen again, pushing several stray wisps of flaxen hair from her face.

Theodwyn began to bounce again in her eagerness, her hood threatening to fall forward again, or perhaps off all together, "But Mother said you'd been inside too long, she-she said you should go out some, and-and maybe *ride*!" The brilliant blue eyes sparkled with enthusiasm over the last word. She had not had a ride in a long while, between the absence of first her adored brother, and then her father. Knowing this, Taetho sighed again and nodded.

"Very well, just as soon as I put away these things here, we'll go for a short ride. You go wait in the stables with Foen." Theodwyn gave a triumphant crow of delight, and sped away, her hood tumbling off the back of her golden curls and her small boots making an echoing *pat pat* all the way down the stone halls.

Foen was pale as the snow on the White Mountains, and as eager for a ride as his mistress, who pranced impatiently beside him, wondering how long it could possibly take Taetho to put away a few bed linens and get her cloak. The stable hand had already saddled the pony, and in a sudden brilliant thought, Theodwyn decided to take Foen on a short trot around the courtyard. She couldn't remember having ever done this on her own before, and the prospect dazzled her completely, consequently causing her to forget that the courtyard was often full of incoming and outgoing messengers on mounts much larger than her own.

Opening the stable door, she guided her pony out and paused for a moment, eyeing the currently empty courtyard. Satisfied that Taetho had still not arrived, she went to the animal's side and in one move, landed herself firmly in the saddle. Foen went mad. Whinnying suddenly, as if in pain, the small pony planted its front feet and bucked hard, trying to pitch his rider from her seat. If she had not been brought up more in the saddle than on her own two feet, the girl would most certainly have been thrown to the hard paving stones, but even as Foen kicked, and kicked again, she tightened her grip harder. Realizing he could not get rid of whatever was paining him that way, he instead set off at a terrific speed around the courtyard's perimeter, flying as if a panther was on his heels. Holding on desperately, Theodwyn's eyes grew wide as walnuts, her hair losing its ribbon and flying everywhere, mixing with Foen's short, white mane. Gray pillars whipped by, then whipped by again, and the stones beneath the pony's hooves were blurred as the girl tried to remember how to stop her pet when she wanted to get off.

Suddenly, there was a much louder clattering and Theodwyn caught just a glimpse of two horses coming to a halt at the courtyard entrance before she passed them. With a short command, one of the horses started after her, running along the inside of the wild pony's circle and easily keeping pace with Foen, who was growing tired even in his panic. Leaning down, the horse's rider slipped one hand under the small girl's arms and lifted her out of her own saddle and up into his, slowing his horse with his other hand just as she settled in front of him. Foen ran on for a little ways and then stopped, trembling and sweating in front of his stable door, his large, dark animal eyes confused.

"Hush, now," Thorongil murmured, falling into the language of the Rohirrim as the child began to cry. Slowly he moved his horse over next to the pony and dismounted with her in his arms as simultaneously Duurben's horse drew up beside him and Taetho finally arrived.

The older girl took in the sight of her sister being carried by an unfamiliar man with a start, demanding in a voice imperious with worry, "What, sir, are you doing with my sister?"

Thorongil smiled reassuringly as he set Theodwyn down, replying, "Her pony was running a little wild, and was about to throw her from its saddle when we arrived. I took the liberty of removing her from the animal before she came to harm. I hope I have not intruded, my lady."

Taetho drew her shaking sister close, mollified by the respectful tone, the fact that the words had been spoken in her own tongue, and the presence of her sister, tousled, but safely on the ground. "Nay, sir, you have not, and I apologize if I sounded terse. Are you all right, Theodwyn?" Here she stooped to the child's level.

"Ye-yes…" she wavered, tears streaking her cheeks, "F-Foen tried to- tried to *kick me o-off*!" These last words were spoken with a tone of outraged betrayal as she glanced at the offending beast, who was now standing without his saddle as Thorongil examined his back.

"Here is the mischief," the captain finally announced, pulling a wicked looking thorny barb from the underside of the saddle blanket and examining a corresponding red mark on the pony's milky back. "When your sister mounted, she unintentionally drove this into the creature's back; little wonder it tried to rid itself of her weight. You should alert your stable hands to pay closer attention for brambles."

"I will," agreed Taetho, adding to her sister, "you know quite well you're not allowed to be riding alone."

Theodwyn pushed at her wild hair, trying to clear her vision, "B-but you weren't coming."

"I most certainly *was*! You only waited for a quarter of an hour. Besides, you also know that I do not live in my riding gear as Father and Théoden do; I had to change before I came."

"I wish Father was h-home." The child hiccupped, hoping to take refuge from the scolding in changing the subject.

Thorongil, who had just closed Foen in his stable, looked up. "I'm sorry, but is the king not currently here?"

Taetho shook her head briskly, "No, sir, but I will take you to Queen Morwen instead. You may stable your horses here."

"Thank you," Thorongil inclined his head gravely, matching the girl's mature manner. Then he turned to Duurben and said in the common tongue, "We are to stable the horses here."

Duurben sighed inaudibly and dismounted, wondering if Thorongil would remember to fill him in later on whatever it was he had missed. 

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Thengel stood erect on the battlements of Ladin and looked out across the plains in the direction of the forward fort, Tulganif — though he could not see it. "How much of the fort remained when you were forced to abandon it?" He asked the marshal beside him.

"The eastern walls were all but demolished, and the guard towers had been knocked down on that side as well. The western walls were still standing when we fled, but I know not whether the enemy left them thus. We were fortunate to escape with as many men as we did." Bronweg said this with a sort of desperate rationalization in his tone, as if he did not quite believe it.

"Yes, you were." Thengel nodded, not seeming to notice. "Where did you station the survivors?"

"Most are still here with me, but several were native to the area around Medui, and so they went there. The man I told you about — the one who spotted the attack just before it came — he was amongst them. I've heard rumors, though, that the captain at Medui, Eorwine by name, was slain during the second attack, and I've been considering sending a messenger to ascertain the truth of the matter, but I have no one to spare at the moment. It is vital that the Medui remains well manned, for all of our few Southron prisoners were sent there and will have need of a guard."

"Still, it can wait a little longer — at least until the troops are better settled. These forts will stand at least that long, will they not?" Thengel had not meant the question to be entirely serious, but Bronweg frowned worriedly.

"Weeks ago I would have said yes, my lord, but now…" He shook his head; his hand trailed along the mortar line between the stones on the parapet and a thin crumbling of dust coated his dark glove. "I fear I have failed in my trust. These three forts were placed under my command, yet it was not until the attack was begun that I realized how weak they had become."

"Nay, it was no direct fault of yours." Thengel sighed, gazing down at the worn stones of Ladin beneath him. "We have not been attacked from this direction in some time, and so these forts were neglected. It is a mistake we have learned at a bitter price not to repeat."

"Yes," the marshal agreed softly. Off to the side, a messenger approached the two men tentatively, unsure of whether their speech was confidential.

"What is it?" Thengel asked.

"Two men from Gondor, sire," the messenger replied, bowing.

"Gondor?" Thengel's sharp eyes traveled outward, as if expecting to see a mass of troops coming over the hills behind him, then focused closer on two men standing at the head of the stairs. "Bid them come."

Both men were dressed similarly with the white tree upon their breasts, but one had a star-shaped clasp on his shoulder, and it was he who spoke, using the language of the Rohirrim: "Hail, King Thengel. I bring greetings from Steward Ecthelion and word of the troops you requested."

The king blinked as he recognized the voice, and his eyes narrowed against the glare of the sunlight as he tried to recall a name to match the face. "Captain Thorongil?"

Thorongil bowed, acknowledging the title as his own, "Well met, sire, though I am surprised you remembered me so speedily."

"I would be hard-pressed indeed to forget you, though you only served under me for five years." Thengel's voice sounded pleased at the rediscovery of an old captain. "And what news do you bring me?"

The captain told his story briefly, dissatisfaction with his own tale showing clearly on his face, and he ended finally with, "The Lady Morwen then sent us on to meet you here. We have little skill to offer between us, but what we have is at your command."

Thengel nodded in acknowledgement of the offer, not deeming it insignificant at all, but at the same time dealing with his own discouragement. "You say you left orders that if your troops returned to their outpost sooner than looked for, they would be sent directly here? That is well, though we will not lay our plans on it." He turned to gaze out at his men, matched less than equally with the companies of the enemy, who were now occupying the remains of his forward fort.

"Do you have any orders for us directly?" Thorongil asked, ready to withdraw if he was no longer needed.

"Yes, in fact. I have things I must see to, but Bronweg can explain to you what has transpired here, and then I desire the both of you to travel north to Medui. There are rumors that the captain there is dead, and if it should prove true I wish you to hold the fort, Thorongil. If he yet lives, send me a message, but remain there still and aid him in the arrangement of the defense. That is where I can best use you."

"Thank you, sire," Thorongil bowed, and the king descended the battlements, leaving Bronweg behind with the two men of Gondor.

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It took the large portion of the journey north for Thorongil to re-explain the whole history of the Southron attack for Duurben's benefit, as Bronweg had communicated the whole tale in his own tongue. When they were through there was a long silence, except for the thudding of the horses hoofs over the low hills. Thorongil's thoughts were absorbed completely in the land around him as he recalled stories of the last invasion here by the Easterlings of Rhû n during the reign of King Brego. 

The Wold was used by the Rohirrim chiefly for the breeding and pasturing of their horses, hence the presence of the three forts on its eastern border; the people of Rohan had not wished to take any further chances with the safety of creatures that were more than a mere livelihood to them. With the exception of small villages dotted throughout the rolling plains there were few other human inhabitants here, and the horses were free to range, having been marked for later retrieval by their owners. Around the forts themselves several small, but thriving towns had sprung up, providing a place for the villagers to purchase supplies and appearing safe in the shadow of the stone walls; the refugees from Tulganif now knew better than to trust appearances.

As the two men crested a fresh rise Medui appeared before them, a huddle of houses and tents pressed against its western side — there was no room within the fort itself for all of Thengel's troops to sleep. Medui, they realized, was built almost exactly as Ladin had been: not overly large and easily manned by only a hundred men; indeed, incapable of holding very many more on its wall tops. There was a wide gate in the western wall, and two smaller ones on the north and south walls, but no entrance on the east. The walls themselves were wide enough for two men to walk abreast only, and were high, but worn, with guard towers on the four corners and loopholes stationed all the way around the battlements.

The two men were let in by the southern gate and directed to a long, low building inside where they stabled their weary animals. There was a courtyard in the center of the fort, a building where the men slept, one for the blacksmith, one for the weaponry, a large storehouse, a well, a long dining hall, and several more buildings that Duurben could not identify. Men appeared to be everywhere, and it was difficult not to be badly jostled as they tried to make their way through. 

"Captain Eorwine?"

The man glanced up as Thorongil addressed him, looking weary, "Yes, I am he."

"It is good to see that you still live, it was rumored you had perished in the attack."

Eorwine sighed, rubbing his forehead with a calloused hand, "There's plenty of time for that yet. What, may I ask, is your business with me?"

"We were sent by King Thengel to aid you in setting up your defenses." Thorongil said briefly, "I am Captain Thorongil, currently of Gondor, and this is my companion Duurben, also of that land. He does not speak your language, but he is a strong fighter and a good man."

Eorwine nodded, moving aside as two men brushed past them carrying bundles of arrows. "I'm sure I have some use for you, but I have been so taken with storing up extra weapons and trying to make repairs on our walls that much of the organizing of the defense had gone to a trusted soldier and friend of mine. It would be best if you addressed yourself to him."

"Where might I find him?" Thorongil asked, moving still farther aside as more men came through, separating him from Eorwine.

"The guard house!" The captain of the fort called, and then he was pulled away by someone else who needed his attention.

"Where are we going now?" Duurben asked, almost desperately, as Thorongil moved off at a brisk pace.

"You really must consider learning a second language, my friend. Nearly all the Rohirrim speak the common tongue to strangers, but not amongst themselves, and you will miss much." Thorongil shook his head, his tone mildly teasing, though Duurben didn't seem to realize it. "To answer your question: we're going to our new commander, whomever that may be."

Thorongil allowed himself to relax into the familiar atmosphere as he and Duurben walked. It had indeed been a long time and he had forgotten the open feeling of the plains. Here a chill wind churned the grasses and light from a radiant sun illumined all below. None could know the troubles these citizens of Rohan now suffered, it was impossible to feel anxious when all nature seemed at peace. 

"I had forgotten how much I missed it." Thorongil said aloud without meaning to.

"Sir?" Duurben frowned slightly.

"All of this." The captain replied with a smile, moving his hand to indicate all around them. "I served here for years and became very familiar with the low hills and the openness of the sky."

Duurben nodded; his loyal spirit for his own country and his unfamiliarity with this land was evident on his face — still he too seemed to relax in the cool breeze and bright sunlight.

At last the two men reached their destination: a guardhouse built just inside the wall. Duurben gave way for his captain to go before him and Thorongil stepped into the doorway, only to be knocked several steps back by a figure who was leaving guardhouse hurriedly at the exact same moment. 

The figure stumbled back, startled, and Thorongil gained his feet fully. "I am sorry sir!" The young man blurted in the common tongue.

"There is no harm done." Thorongil assured him, responding in kind, and looking now to see with whom he had collided. The young man was fair headed like most of those in Rohan and his face was handsome in a boyish way. Thorongil blinked — there was something strange about him, a sort of foreign familiarity. 

The Rohirrim at last turned his own eyes to those of Thorongil and for a moment he only stared. 

"Father!" He called suddenly, arousing someone else from within the guardhouse. In another moment a man, much the elder of his son, stepped into the light and there was no longer any mistaking Thorongil's first suspicions.

"Kelegalen?" He asked in wonder.

The elder man looked just as surprised. "It is not...Strider?"

Thorongil smiled suddenly. "Kelegalen!" He exclaimed and moved to embrace the man — much to the surprise of Duurben. "And Nethtalt." Thorongil turned to the younger man with a smile, "You have grown much since our last meeting."

Nethtalt did indeed look very much older, and his green eyes shone with a contentment and confidence Thorongil had not often seen in the terrible forges of Mount Gundabad. He was gladdened to see the change.

"We have seen neither you nor your friend since our last parting." Kelegalen said in amazement.

"I fear you are right," Thorongil nodded. "It has been far too long."

"And how come you here Strider?"

The captain of Gondor hid a smile. "I am not known as Strider by many here, Kelegalen, for it was only my nickname; I am called Thorongil now. Though, should it be better for you to call me by the name you with which you are more familiar, then I shall not dispute it."

Kelegalen shook his head with a laugh. "No, I would call you as you are known. How came you here Thorongil?" He asked again.

"I and my lieutenant, Duurben, are here on behalf of Steward Ecthelion and the people of Gondor to offer our aid to King Thengel."

Kelegalen frowned. "I see. I do indeed appreciate your aid, and am honored by your presence. However I wonder if more help is to come from Gondor?"

Thorongil let out a sigh. "It is an unfortunate time in Gondor and no further aid could be sent at present, though I am hopeful that more may come in time. Until then I am told that Duurben and myself are at your disposal and should do as you order."

"For this I am very thankful." Kelegalen smiled once more, and then turned to Duurben. "And for your aid as well, Lieutenant." 

Duurben gave the Gondorian gesture of honor to the elder man then straightened once more. "I wish to serve in whatever way I can." The soldier gave no outward sign, but he was relieved he could at last understand the conversation, for both Kelegalen and Nethtalt had spoken with Thorongil in the common tongue.

Kelegalen stepped from the doorway and beckoned, "Nethtalt has a message to deliver just now, but come within and I will tell you all I can."

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TBC…


	10. Findel

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*fanfare* Sarah again! *bows, ducking rotting fruit in the process* Okay, first another general announcement!

EVERYONE: Two sort-of-kind-of-explanations-for-why-Legolas-is-so-late: (1) Originally, _we did not intend to have Legolas IN this fic._ *gasp* That's why it's called 'Thorongil' and not something more inclusive. But we had only planned the beginning before we realized that (try as we might) we couldn't leave our favorite elf out, and so we began brainstorming him into our plot from that point on! : ) (2) Even considering that, we hadn't realized it took us this long to get back to him until we split the whole thing up into chapters. By that time we had a lot of stuff we didn't want to cut just for the sake of hitching Legolas closer to the beginning. Final note: this fic is around 30 chapters long, so don't worry -- you'll have plenty of stuff to read with Legolas in it! : D

Hope that clears some of that up and so that Hannah and I can at least post unmolested! LOL! ; D We're beginning (_beginning_, mind you) to get close to a second appearance on Legolas' part, and until then you can read about him in the most excellently written 'Stars of Harad' (given that Cassia/Sio are dividing their fic up a little more equitably). Thank you for your patience! : )

Okay, now in response to all our fabulous reviewers… : D

Halo: Thanks! I'm so happy you're happy! Kelegalen and Nethtalt are happy to see you too, I'm sure. ; D

None: *takes scolding, then gets a rather unconvincingly innocent expression on her face* Why in the world would you worry about him?

Gwyn: Yup, Thorongil is Strider! And here's hoping you might someday find a writing partner as well; plot concoction with a friend is boatloads of fun! I know what you mean about chapter length, but really it's all a matter of comparison. Compared to some of Cassia/Sio's chapters, ours are pretty short too!

Mercredi: We surprised you? Cool! It's been fun seeing D or D readers react to their reappearance. I'm glad you like Theodwyn's last scene, no matter how blurry she was at the time. ; ) And yes, they did seem to have rather a bad time of it, didn't they -- even considering how far they had to go. Fortunately, we ran out of creative delays… ; P

phoenixqueen: Yessiree, same Wild Men! We like inserting pieces of the books when we can. : ) LOL! I'm glad you liked their reintroduction! It probably would have been funny to seen Duurben's reaction there, but unfortunately, Kelegalen was disobligingly vague. *frowns at the man as if he has nothing whatsoever to do with her* Aragorn *did* in fact serve in both armies (we didn't make that part up), but we may have gotten him a little mixed around, since it's beginning to look like he served in Gondor first, *then* Rohan. *sigh* Oh well! ; ) I'm glad you liked Theodwyn's predicament as well; or rather her rescue (even if not exactly original). ; D Thanks!

Rainydayz: *watches Rainydayz flap* Wow, I'm glad you like them! And yes, well, if we can't bring in Legolas just yet, maybe we can distract you…? *catches mid-air-glare* Or not. : P *blushes* Thank you so much! We had a lot of fun with Theodwyn. *tries to wriggle out of grasp on her shirt collar* Writing is rapidly becoming dangerous here. SPRAY PAINT?? *considers the character death question* Um. Well. Maybe you could say that. *smiles faintly* I'd elaborate, but if you didn't kill me, Hannah would. ; ) Honestly? We really *don't* hate you, and don't want to keep upsetting you like this (pig's eyes and spray paint aside), if for no other reason than that you're a Duurben fan; but it seems no matter how hard we try, we always end up wringing tears from our audience! *raises hands helplessly, thereby completely losing her balance as Kelegalen is shoved towards her* OOF! Th-thanks so much, R-rainy! We're *gasp* really g-glad you're liking it so much! *wheeze* : D

e: Another Kelegalen and Nethtalt fan!! Oh, I'm so very happy! *hugs e* Hannah and I were really wondering whether anyone would even _remember_ them, so we're wriggling in ecstasy here. ; ) We didn't think we had it in us either (see top of page). : P

reginabean: You've been either (a) reading too much National Inquirer or (b) watching too much Saturday Night Live. It's making you demanding! ; D And I'm glad you liked our maps!! That was a sort of afterthought, gee-we-may-end-up-confusing-everybody-if-we-don't-give-them-some-sort-of-visual-aide thingy. ; )

Staran: Thanks a bunch! : D

Hiro-tyre: Welcome back! I finally went and capped the Legolas issue under the 'Everyone' comments at the top here. : ) *grins idiotically* Every time someone says they like Duurben, I start glowing and floating and, well, grinning idiotically! Thank you so much! This fic is exactly 12 years after D or D (as you find out in this chapter), putting Nethtalt at about 25 and Kelegalen at about 60. I suppose someone might notice that very little change has taken place with Thorongil, but then Thorongil (from just having been outdoors a lot) might actually look enough older not to excite suspicion, or else Kelegalen may distrust his own memory enough to not pick up on it. I'm not really sure which theory is correct (if either); I never got around to asking Kelegalen… : P Numerous commas are my besetting grammar sin, and since I am head editor, I must take full responsibility. *sigh* Sorry 'bout that! : } Review when you can, it's okay! Thanks! : D

Asen: *kicks Asen's computer* Kind of funny how they call turning a computer on 'booting it up', isn't it? : P I agree about languages!! All I know are bits of elvish, pieces of Spanish, and Offengloffish (which probably shouldn't count…). Thanks! : )

Lina: *locks mechanical horse in closet, dodges more toast* : D *exasperated sigh* For heaven's sake, how can you protect him from our evilness (I mean the bad guys' evilness) when you've done such an effective job of making him wish to avoid you?? Not to mention whacking poor Duurben… *piece of toast bounces off her head* Oh well. I suppose there's no stopping you when you get going, is there? I'm glad you're liking this so much! : )

Eomer: *can't quite stifle a laugh at the Horse Lover's Anonymous* Ahem! I mean, I'm glad you have such support. *ducks more toast* Say, when Lina drags you back to lovely NC, would you mind collecting some of this? *nudges toast with toe* It's getting to ankle depth. ; P

w: *hugs w* It seems you are one of the few people from whom we can take constructive criticism; may I thank you for your honesty as well as your tact? You're right: the horse has been done before and done better. I had hoped I might get away with it, but in the future I guess I'll go the route of 'invent it yourself'. : ) Your compliments on our pacing continue to go to my head! Such feedback is the sort I value most (as I've probably said, but it bears repeating). I'm glad you liked Thengel and Thorongil!! I worried that perhaps I had overreached myself there. *whew* ; ) A thousand thanks on Medui too! A funny note about the pacing of Thorongil's thoughts: In general co-authoring is rendered largely risk free by (a) the two writers having similar styles (which we do for the most part) and (b) a great deal of prior planning (at least in our case). The only thing which remains risky is the blending of the parts each of us have written! This is, I think, the first time we have changed authors mid-scene, and Hannah and I weren't quite on the same page because we wrote the two halves simultaneously. Not an excuse -- as editor it's my job to fix such things -- but since it will probably happen a couple times in this fic, I felt I ought to explain! Thank you for your personal opinion; we happen to value it highly! : ) And finally: we really shocked you? And you really liked it? Thank you SO much! We're most thrilled whenever our OCs get a welcome, and the fresh welcome these are getting is wonderful. : D

Another day, another non-Legolas post; please be kind to us poor beleaguered authors! We promise we'll never do it again! Or at least, we'll really _try_ not to… ]; )

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Thorongil

By Sarah and Hannah (Siri)

(disclaimers, explanations, and summaries 

available at the top of chapter 1)

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Chapter 10

Findel

If Mavranor had not taken up her abode in the stone remains of the captured fort, her cry would have been heard across the Anduin. As it was, the stones deadened the sound, and even the sentries were unaware of the turmoil in the queen's tent. It was only Harnwe who flinched visibly and, reaching forward, tried to calm his wife in the middle of her anger and grief. Stalking and wringing her hands like a caged animal she brushed him aside with barely a glance, scoring his forearm unintentionally with her long fingernails. Again the king of the Haradrim winced, more from surprise than pain, but now he rose and his expression was impatient.

"He is not dead yet, my own, why must you show your emotion so openly?"

She rounded on him like a tigress, "Do you believe that because you hold no love for your own brother that all are so cursed?! And what matter if he is not dead at this moment? Do not for a instant try to placate me with false hopes of his being returned to me! Barbarians our enemies are, one and all, and if they do not torture Gwanur to gain information of our movements, do you think they will let him live? Nay." And again her hands clenched, her pale face contorted with the agony of equally brilliant love for her only brother, and hatred for his captors.

Harnwe brought his fist down on the half charred remains of a heavy table and it cracked and fell beneath the blow, but he paid it no heed. "Will you then remain withdrawn and hopeless when I—" he had been close to saying he needed her, but thought the better of it, and shoved a browned hand roughly through his hair. "If so, you are no fit queen. I would have been better to have left you on the other side of the river with the common people."

Her eyes, turbulent already, flashed into sudden lightening, and as was usual, she was suddenly and dazzlingly beautiful. Also deadly. "Speak not those words again, my lord. I am quite prepared to fight, if necessary, and will most certainly not be relegated to overseeing the building of your machines."

He kept down a smile of satisfaction and nodded, "Very well then. I shall keep you here, though I will not have need of you in battle, my own. Word has come to me that your brother and all the rest whom the enemy took have been kept in their northern fort. According to our spies, they live yet, and are so far unharmed."

Mavranor cut him off, pacing now with energy, "Then we must act quickly! Attack while they are still weakened… This fort did not stand even a full night against us, and if we had continued on, we might well have taken the other two—"

"Halt, woman, err thy tongue carries you away with it!" He said sternly, "We had not yet tools enough to conquer the enemy's other forts, and still have not. If my orders had been carried swiftly enough, a foolhardy attack would never have been begun on them and your brother would still be amongst us!"

She stopped her pacing, knowing he was correct, but conceding nothing. "Then what shall we do, my lord?"

He liked the respectful tone, though he knew there was no submission behind it. "We will try something more cunning, my own — something that will require no loss of life, if managed appropriately. For you are right, we must move swiftly. We will offer them a trade."

"And what sort of trade?" she pressed further, smiling a little as she came closer to him, her breath warm. "We took no prisoners."

When he whispered softly in her ear, she laughed, as at a fine jest, and kissed him.

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Nethtalt left the guard house with his message, making no complaint at being sent off even when he assuredly would have preferred to stay. As the other three men took seats round a rough wooden table, Thorongil nodded his head towards the young man's departing back.

"He has grown into a son to be proud of, Kelegalen."

The older man nodded, the light in his eyes revealing his pride, "Aye, Ilúvatar has blessed me greatly. I would say even more so than some fathers whose children are their own from birth."

For a moment Thorongil caught the threads of a fleeting memory — a saddened man with nothing left in his own country to live for, and a lad broken at the loss of his birth father — but they were blown away faster than he could bring them into focus.

"Did your journey home go well?" he asked with interest, as Kelegalen passed them weed for their pipes and lit his own.

"Very well, considering the condition of the lands between here and Gilthad. Nethtalt's village had completely emptied after all its men had been taken, so we did not linger there, but returned here to the lands of my own birth; Stavhold came with us."

"Stavhold?" Thorongil interrupted with interest. "I had wondered what became of him." He and Stavhold had not parted well.

Kelegalen nodded, "Aye, he joined Nethtalt and myself a few days after we separated from you. He had no one to return to, and we had no lasting hard ill feeling — it was Nethtalt who insisted, in truth. When we arrived, he joined the éored here almost immediately. As for Nethtalt and myself: for a while only stayed within Nannva, a small village near here, and raised horses as the others did. Nethtalt learned our language and the art of horsemanship and soon you could not have told him apart from the others of his age." Again there was pride in Kelegalen's voice. "But perhaps there is too much fighting in my blood; several years later I joined the Bronweg's éored as well, and when Nethtalt grew old enough he followed me. I gained high trust with Bronweg, as well as Eorwine, and we have since split much of our time between the three fortresses here, though what home we have is still in Nannva." He smiled, "It has been a good twelve years."

"I'm more glad for you than I can say," Thorongil smiled in return. "I only wish I could have come to see you when I served here."

"You served *here*?" Kelegalen repeated in surprise, exhaling a small puff of smoke.

"Aye, but always in the north. There did not seemed to be much trouble in the south."

Kelegalen snorted softly, his brow creasing, "No, indeed not. Very little, anyway. We've had the occasional group of orcs from southern Mirkwood, but that was not enough to encourage us to keep a closer watch."

"You could not have known, my friend." Thorongil said firmly, his hand gripping Kelegalen's on the table top. "What could the Haradrim possibly want from you that would bring them so far and in such numbers?"

"Our horses or our lands," the man responded promptly, as one who has thought long on the subject. "That is all we have of value here in the Wold."

"What measures are you taking for their protection?"

"I fear that there is not much that we can do at present," Kelegalen said heavily. "Plans have not been set in motion as yet and we are to wait and prepare all we can. It is an ill wind that buffets our walls, for we are already depleted in numbers, now that Tulganif is taken by the Southrons."

Thorongil nodded his head once, his blue eyes intent as he smoked silently for a few minutes.

"You have not told me what became of the both of you, my friend?" Kelegalen questioned lightly, brushing away the dark mood like cobwebs from his mind.

The captain shrugged, "We returned home safely, and my father scolded me to within an inch of my life. "

Kelegalen laughed aloud, knowing his companion was jesting, "And then?"

"I continued on with my relatively quiet life for another two years, and then decided it would be well to see more of Middle Earth. I journeyed to Edoras and became a soldier of fortune for seven years, learning the ways of the Rohirrim much as Nethtalt did; after that, I came to Gondor and have been there ever since."

Duurben turned even more thoughtful where he was sitting; he had never heard even half this story before.

"You are already a captain — that speaks well of you, Thorongil." Kelegalen praised soberly. "But then, I already knew of your fighting spirit."

The door creaked open again, admitting Nethtalt, who pulled off his cloak. "The repairs on the east wall have begun, but Captain Eorwine isn't certain they can be completed before the next attack."

"Doubtful," Kelegalen agreed, knocking his pipe against his knee. "I should go see for myself, but first I must apprise Thorongil of the defenses as they stand now and get the both of them fresh horses."

"I'm sure we can manage on our own," Thorongil assured him. "We don't want to take you from your work."

"No, not at all. There are a thousand and one things that require my attention, and several of them lie in the direction of the horse paddock. Besides which, it is unlikely I can do anything for the wall that Eorwine is not doing; I only wish to ascertain their endurance so that I may factor that in to my defense plans, and I can do that later."

The four men left the fort by the main gate, Nethtalt retrieving several communiqués that needed delivering to the troops outside the walls. The town was crowded, both with the residents themselves, and the extra soldiers with their horses. Venders sold food and rope and other essentials in low, thatched buildings; blacksmiths plied their trade with vigor, hoping to keep ahead of the sudden rush of business; children and their mothers mixed in the streets with tall men in helms.

As they walked, Kelegalen pointed out the size of the reinforcements, the lay of the land, and the common people. He sighed, "They will not leave! They seem to be under the misapprehension that Medui can protect them; they do not even consider that the enemy might wash around us like the sea around a stone and reach them even in the rear."

"What will you do with them if the attack is too fierce for you to hold back?" Thorongil asked in concern.

"We will bring them into the fort," Nethtalt said briefly. "There is little room, but Eorwine was adamant, and Father agreed."

"And you?"

"Naturally *I* agree," the young man said soberly, adding by way of explanation, "I've seen too many burned villages."

Duurben caught Thorongil's sleeve, pulling him aside for a moment as Nethtalt paused to deliver the first of the communiqués to tired looking scout. "Captain, I have been thinking, and there is no possible way these men can hold such a fort against so many. Maybe if they had kept the forward fort, but with only this…"

"Don't underestimate them, Duurben. They may not be of Gondor, but this is their land, these are their families, and out there are their horses. The men of these southern éoreds are gathered from the farmers who then split their time between crops, horses, and defense. They may not be as well trained as a soldier whose only occupation lies in fighting, but their motivation is all the more strong." He clapped his friend on the shoulder, "Do not begin your worrying just yet."

"Where is Father?" Nethtalt was back. His glanced around once and then answered his own question, "Oh, there he is."

Kelegalen had crossed the road and was now conversing with a stranger beside a cart half filled with goods. When they joined them, he smiled and introduced them, "This is Thalion, a good friend from Nannva. And this is Thorongil and Duurben; they were sent from Gondor to aid us, as I said."

"I am pleased to meet you," Thalion inclined his head. He was middle aged, with the same weathered appearance of all the Rohirrim who lived on the plains and the sharp eyes of a fighter.

"Thalion is part of our éored, but he is currently returning to Nannva to take his turn at guard duty. We did not wish to leave the women and children unprotected, so we assigned their defense in shifts of four men at a time; chiefly to help them flee if an attack comes rather than fight the enemy single handed."

"I'm also taking back supplies," Thalion explained easily.

"Is Aldor not with you?" Nethtalt asked, glancing around.

"No, my wife has a touch of fever and I didn't wish her to be exposed to the cold, so Aldor stayed behind to care for the horses; he has become quite good with them for a lad. But I am not alone, my niece insisted on coming to help with the purchases." He gave a wry half-smile, "I think she is under the impression she must work to repay for taking her in. As if she doesn't work the hardest of the three of us anyway!"

There was a thud as of something heavy being placed in the back of the cart, and a young woman came around the side, her head turned as she looked back over her shoulder. "There was no more wheat, so we will have to make do with barley again—" her gaze came back around and she stopped suddenly, her long, flyaway hair catching the sunlight and flashing gold in the crisp air. "I beg pardon, I did not see you were in conversation."

Thorongil shook his head reassuringly, catching out of the corner of his eye Nethtalt's face. The chilly wind had turned it faintly red.

"May I present my niece, Findelglaur," Thalion announced, chuckling.

"Findel, if you please," she said, looking embarrassed, and giving an abbreviated curtsey. "Greetings, Kelegalen, Nethtalt, sirs."

"I'm glad to see you looking so well," Kelegalen said kindly, taking pity on her. 

"Will the both of you be staying long?"

"Not very, we have a few more things to get and then we must be off if we are to arrive by early evening." Thalion glanced at the cart, seemingly running over in his head the things he still had to purchase. "We will need more iron for our small smithy, and leather," he frowned. "Unfortunately they are both things that I must see to."

"I can purchase the iron," Findel suggested, her hands reaching up automatically to try and push her hair back into its binding.

"But you cannot carry it all yourself. Even I would need to take two trips."

"I will go with her," Nethtalt offered, moving to Findel's side.

"And I will as well," Thorongil finished. "We will be able to bring it in one trip that way."

Thalion was grateful and the group separated, Duurben following Kelegalen to the horse paddock.

"How was your journey?" Nethtalt asked Findel as they wove their way between people to the smoking shop of the blacksmith. The wind pulled at the woman's long, green cloak, showing her brown homespun skirt underneath.

"Very well; the weather is still excellent for traveling. Uncle was pleased, for he didn't wish to be gone when night fell." Her blue eyes twinkled, "He says it is to take care of the horses, but that is only so I won't tell Aunt Rokhiell that he was worrying over her again. Women here are often alone when the men leave to gather the horses together — we are used to it — and she really isn't that sick, but the reassurance means little to my uncle. She is constantly saying he is like a large mother hen in the way he clucks and stews."

"I don't blame him," Nethtalt answered, but in a sudden way, as if he hadn't meant to say it.

Findel laughed, a sound like willow leaves in a spring wind. "Nethtalt, I would remind you that we have grown our whole lives on these plains! Such an upbringing keeps you strong when other women from more sheltered lives might wither. And as I have said: my aunt is both braver and stronger than *you* would know."

"Now that is not true!" he objected seriously. "Remember, I was already living in Nannva six winters ago."

"I forgot," she admitted, smiling apologetically and catching up a few pieces of straw as they stood outside the smithy, waiting for their turn. Her slender fingers, calloused in a few places from holding the reigns of a horse, moved skillfully, braiding the bleached strands absently as she turned at last to Thorongil, "I'm sorry; it is rude to leave you from the conversation."

"Not at all," Thorongil shook his head, watching them as they sat side by side on an abandoned bale of straw. He leaned against the rough wooden walls behind him, "Does your family raise horses?"

"Aye, nearly all in Nannva do. My uncle is a harness maker as well."

"He seems a most admirable man."

"He is." The young woman's agreement was firm, and she explained simply, "When my parents died he and my aunt brought me to their village and took me in. They have treated me as a daughter ever since; I owe them much." 

She finished the braid and curved it into a circle, like a bracelet, and compared it to a similar one around her wrist that was made from dark gray horsehair. Then she tossed it to the ground, and cast an irritated glance at the leaden sky. "Must all in Medui choose this day to have their horses shod?"

"You always were impatient," Nethtalt shook his head.

"And you?" the young woman demanded, her eyebrows rising. "Are you to tell me you have never wished the sun set faster, or the moon rose with greater speed?"

"Something of that nature," he said calmly, "though I am sure you will not believe me." He cocked an eye in the captain's direction, "Perhaps Thorongil will speak for me?"

Thorongil raised his hands, not wishing to be drawn into their argument, however light. "I knew you only as a boy, Nethtalt, I would not presume that you are unchanged."

"Very well then," Findel said brightly, her eyes alight with mischief, "tell me only what he was like as a child. He never speaks of it." The words were faintly accusing.

Nethtalt seemed to be signaling with his eyes that Thorongil should not speak, but the captain ignored the young man and replied, "Well, I'm afraid I met and knew him chiefly over the course of a single event, but to put it very briefly, he was probably one of the bravest of his years I have had the privilege to meet. In a perilous situation he aided myself and several others, including his father, with the intelligence and energy we found in only a few of the grown men around us. He was loyal to his companions, single-minded in his purpose, and was willing at the end to accept his new future and succeed in it. When we at last parted, though he was only thirteen, I considered him a valuable ally, and a good friend. Thus I am very grateful he has not forgotten me."

There was a short pause in which Nethtalt was scarlet — a color that mixed oddly with his flaxen hair and green eyes — and Findel was thoughtful. Finally she spoke, "I thank you, for he has never mentioned such an incident as you describe before. However, I ought to berate you as well," here she smiled briefly at her knees, "for it was false to imply he had changed."

At that moment, the smith stepped forward, and Findel rose to meet him, pulling out a small pouch of gold. Thorongil paused, waiting for Nethtalt, but the young man seemed frozen to the straw bale. A second later he shook himself, stooped to retrieve something from the ground — which he placed in his pocket — and then followed.

The last of the supplies were stowed in the cart, with the iron distributed evenly to keep the load from injuring the horse. Thalion climbed into his seat and reached back down to offer a hand to his niece, but she paused, glancing over her shoulder. "When will we see you all again?"

"Nethtalt will be on guard duty in another week," Kelegalen answered her.

"Aldor will be glad of that," she said. "He has missed you sadly." Then she took her seat and the cart turned, heading north.

"They should make good time," Kelegalen nodded, "but we have talked long enough. Come: Duurben aided me in selecting a horse for you, but it would be well for him to meet you before you ride him, and battle could come any day."

They turned back towards the paddock, Duurben frowning at the ground, and for a while there was silence as Thorongil considered whether or not to ask the question at the back of his mind. Finally he ventured tentatively, "Kelegalen, I have no wish to seem presumptuous—"

Kelegalen's eyes glinted suddenly with amusement, "My son and Findel?"

Thorongil nodded, his eyebrow lifting, "Has he…?"

"Not yet. I couldn't wish him any better, but if you were to ask me, I should say he is nervous about something. Perhaps she is simply too wonderful to ask."

Duurben stared as his captain smiled over this oddly disjointed exchange; however Thorongil was also shaking his head in what might have been sympathy.

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TBC…


	11. A Warg in Wizard's Clothing

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The infamous Sarah returns!! : D

Anarril: Sorry we missed ya last time! *claps* Yehaa, another Kelegalen/Nethtalt fan!! We so much love hearing from you guys. ; ) In answer to your questions: This is twelve years after Death or Despair; this fic is 30 chapters long; and more Legolas is coming, but not for a while. I don't think Denethor ever finds out about the future king's return, since he's dead before Aragorn comes to Minas Tirith in ROTK. *sigh* Too bad! ; D And don't worry: the barb was only an accident, but paranoia is a common ailment amongst fanfic readers. *grins understandingly*

Cleo-the-tardy: *hugs her sister* S'okay! And really, if you don't have time to write reviews, you can always go verbal. *gets a crafty look in her eye* So, um, what exactly *is* going on in Nefredal? : D Just curious! (NOT George) I'm glad you liked Theodwyn and Findel; after Rosie, I'd kind of hoped you would -- and I'm *really* glad you don't mind the Legolas-absence here! *hugs Checker again* Thoffank yoffou soffo moffuch! : )

Gwyn: Elves *are* cool!! That's why we couldn't seem to stop ourselves from including this one… ; )

phoenix queen: Don't worry! Legolas is officially impervious to Cupid's darts, and Thorongil had already been shot fatally years before this fic took place! Further than the two of them, we dare not speak. ; ) And I'm absolutely *positive* your speech was not as bad as you think! Such things never are, except to the people who write them. So here's a post, but understand: it's a reward for good work, not a consolation for lousy work. ; D

Lina: *tries to pull Lina off the villain* 'Maulin' _each other_'?? : D LOL! We don't think you need to worry, Lina! At least, not about Findel. Thorongil's already lost his heart to, um, *remembers just _who _she's talking to and mumbles* er, someone else. *giggles* You know, Lina, Thorongil smokes too! *hides the key to the mechanical horse closet and watches Thorongil beat a hasty retreat* Yeah, Lina, I see. ; )

Eomer: Did you know that 100% of horses who inhale toast crumbs die? I mean, 100% of everyone dies, but that's beside the point. *realizes she's beginning to talk Lina-ish* Uh-oh. : P

None: Thank you! We hope you enjoy it. : ) And your elf? *more innocence* are we ever anything _but_ kind? : D

reginabean: Thanks! I'm glad you found it cute and not disgusting, or anything. : ) *listens to regina grumble* Okay, what if I were to just go ahead and tell you that Thorongil's companion was a buck-toothed, magenta cocker spaniel named Phil? Would that satisfy your inquisitive streak? : P

Staran: *bows* Thank you so very much! : D

Halo: We're glad you enjoyed the back story there, and here is a new chappie now… :)

Mercredi: Yup, a kinda-sorta-girl-friend for Nethtalt! We're so pleased you're enjoying this; we were a little concerned some people would think the romance gross, or something. The bonus of not boring you -- even though not much really happened -- and even managing to show you something there was wonderful!! Thank you so much! : D

w: Okay, first I have to tell you: _Hannah (the early bird) woke me (the distinctly groggy) up this morning and, grinning like the Cheshire Cat, said, "Guess what!" Me: Mmmff? Hannah: W posted and *liked Findel*! Me: (upright instantly) Really?! _Really! Since the beginning of this fic we had several major hurdles we really worried about, reader-wise: Mavranor (too Mary Sue?), Thorongil and Duurben's journey (too long?), Legolas' long absence (too long.), and Findel (too cute *and* too Mary Sue?). There were numerous smaller ones, but those were the biggies. Now maybe you'll understand our delight here! *hugs w back again* : D Furthermore, we're delighted that you are enjoying both the arranging of our chess board and all the OCs we have as pieces!! Duurben, Kelegalen, Nethtalt and Findel especially (the first because we ourselves became unexpectedly fond of him, the second and third because they are old friends, and the fourth because we were so worried about the reception she'd receive). I'm glad we have peaked your curiosity! The trade is coming up soon. : ) And 'soldier of fortune' is rather an odd term, but it's actually not ours. We borrowed it from either the appendices, or the Tolkien Companion (I don't now remember which). It does imply the idea hired help, but that *is* sort of what Thorongil was; Ecthellion having gotten the idea of taking in skilled foreigners to bolster his waning troops. I don't think he was expecting Thorongil, though… ; ) Thank so very, very much! We look forward to your reviews! : D

And now, a postie for all you charming people! : )

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Thorongil

By Sarah and Hannah (Siri)

(disclaimers, explanations, and summaries 

available at the top of chapter 1)

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Chapter 11

A Warg in Wizard's Clothing

The door to the guard house seemed heavier as Thorongil was forced to pull it open against the wind. "Has Duurben's scout group returned yet?"

Nethtalt, the only occupant of the room, shook his head, "No, but it is unlikely their trip will take anything less than four or five days; they will have to be careful to avoid detection."

"Aye," the captain nodded, shaking off the momentary feelings of concern.

"I am glad you're here, though. Kelegalen left me in charge of the archery range for the soldiers today, except I fear he did not realize that there are over forty men in need of practice if we are to keep the enemy from approaching our walls. As I recall, you have some skill with a bow; could I beg a few hours of aid from you, if you are not under orders?"

Thorongil nodded willingly, "I am quite free."

The soldiers nearly all had bows and some degree of skill with them, though many preferred spears, and some had merely been poorly taught. Time and time again Thorongil found himself moving the hands of men who appeared older than he, trying not to indulge in despair. By the end of the afternoon, nearly half were hitting the targets on center, and a quarter had been called away for other duties. The remaining quarter… //Valar preserve us — is this what you had to go through for me, my friend??// Thorongil felt the sweat on his brow freeze in the cool air, though they were in the lee of the fort to prevent the wind from interfering with the flight of the arrows. The rest of the soldiers were looking as tired as he felt.

//Perhaps I should move the marks in closer.// He left the shade of the wall, starting towards the targets they had erected.

*ffiiip* *shak*

Thorongil flinched as an arrow passed within inches of his head — grazing the top of his shoulder in passing — and glanced off the stones behind him, striking sparks. A white faced man in the center of the line hastily set his bow aside as if it burned him, his palms were glinting with slick sweat. 

//Never mind.//

Nethtalt finished the day up for him, calling as he hurried to see if the captain was injured, "That is all for today. You are dismissed to your other duties."

"I am unhurt," Thorongil reassured his friend, catching out a small cloth from his belt pouch and dabbing at the scratch with it. "As a rule I seem to attract arrows as mithril attracts dwarves, but this one only grazed me." His tone was wry as he added, "Perhaps the remainder of the men should be instructed further in spears rather than bows; better still, possibly, if they kept to their swords."

"Aye, perhaps," Nethtalt nodded tiredly, his expression matching that of the lowering skies above. "It is an unfortunate fact that those we have just dismissed were men from this area, not the men the king brought with him. They have seldom fought against anything but targets, and not as often as they should have against those, I fear. Father has always insisted on constant training for the men around him, but he had little say over the men in the other forts — we are paying the price for our lack of vigilance."

Thorongil shook the young man's shoulder gently, trying to gather him from his dark mood. "Come, let us collect the targets before we meet Kelegalen."

Nethtalt clipped a nod, and they moved the bales under the eaves of a shop in the village.

"Collecting feed for the horses, Nethtalt?"

Thorongil glanced over his shoulder in surprise, having not noted the approach of anyone else under the noise of people on the road behind them. Beside him, Nethtalt's green eyes took on a slightly flattened look, but he greeted the newcomer calmly. "No, Gálmod, we were practicing archery. This is Thorongil of Gondor; Thorongil, this is Gálmod son of Germag, a member of our éored and an excellent bowman himself."

The young man appeared to be Nethtalt's age, though he had darker hair than did many of the Rohirrim, which made him seem older; Thorongil was quite certain he had not attended the archery practice. Now he smiled, waving away the praise. "Not at all, only the common skill to be found in any native of Rohan."

The emphasis on 'native' was so slight that Thorongil almost missed it. Nethtalt's voice was taut, with weariness perhaps, as he answered, "True, though it would be unwise of us to depend too much on our innate talents, whatever they may be — skills, like weapons, must be kept well honed if they are to be of any use to us."

"'Us'?" Gálmod repeated, his face carrying a look of vague surprise, as if he were confused by the word. "You and…?" his gray eyes drifted to Thorongil.

"No, I was refering to the Rohirrim as a whole," Nethtalt said, his words bordering on toneless.

A look of almost pitying enlightenment crossed Gálmod's features, "Ah, you meant Kelegalen's people."

Thorongil stared, wondering if the young man meant what he seemed to be so openly implying. A few other of the soldiers had paused a little ways away and seemed to be listening, but Nethtalt's fixed expression was focused solely on the man in front him, "My father's people are my own, Gálmod."

"And you can prove this?" Gálmod chuckled, smiling as if the conversation was merely some harmless banter between old friends. "Fathers are fathers, Nethtalt; they are not clothing to pulled from another's wash and worn yourself."

"I suppose you would say the same for patriotism?"

"Oh, aye, I suppose," Gálmod agreed carelessly. "What I say is not the guiding matter, of course; I am merely unafraid to speak aloud what others have chained in silence. I can't even imagine what it must be like to have no place of origin; one must begin to have empathy for the rats."

Thorongil started forward, trying to block the conflict, but Nethtalt was faster by a heartbeat. Gálmod stumbled, nearly falling headlong in the mud, his lip bleeding from the sudden blow.

"Nethtalt!" Thorongil caught hold of his friend's shoulders, pulling him back, but the young man was staring at Gálmod with a burning light consuming the color in his eyes.

"You're wrong, Gálmod. I have no empathy for rats."

Finally he yielded to the captain's firm pulling and was drawn away, his breath coming short as if he had been running. Thorongil quickly decided that it was not yet the time to meet Kelegalen, and instead lead the young man to the stables, which were currently empty of all but horses.

"Nethtalt, what in Middle Earth was that?" the captain's demand was sharp, but there was a lurking suspicion in the back of his eyes, as if he already knew the answer.

Nethtalt turned his face away, unable to meet the other's gaze, and for a full minute there was silence but for the occational snort of a dozing horse. At last the words came, choked, and quiet. "I- I can't quite say. Gálmod has never liked me— we are the same age, and I think he was jealous at times. I don't know. Father, he — Father always told me never to listen or believe." His head finally rose, the eyes of a young boy looking out of a man's face. "But I did believe. From the first moment he ever spoke, I put it away and locked it up so I wouldn't see it. It follows me during the day, and taunts me in my sleep. When he started again, I — I couldn't listen. Because I knew it was true."

Thorongil's eyes closed briefly and his grip tightened. "No. No, Nethtalt, never. Listen to me, and listen well, because I may be the only man able to tell you this: those you have given your heart to and who have given theirs back in return — they *are* your family. And that land which you have sweated for, and fought for, and tamed — that is your country. Gálmod may speak as long and as loud as he likes, but you needn't hide from his words. There is nothing in them that can hurt you, and nothing that can take from you what is yours." He looked the young man directly in the eye, "Nethtalt, the day you allow yourself to be robbed of those things which are most dear to any man is the same day you doubt the things themselves. Do you doubt that Kelegalen loves you?"

The syllable came as a whisper, "No."

"And nor should you," Thorongil said firmly. "I have seen the way he watches you, Nethtalt. I have seen the pride in his eyes when he talks of what you have become. You are his greatest friend, his surest ally, and his only family. Don't allow Gálmod to rob him."

Almost imperceptibly, Nethtalt straightened, and there was a spark in his eyes, "I won't."

"Good," Thorongil's face broke into a smile. "You may not believe me yet, but adoption is one of Ilúvatar's greatest blessings to his creatures. I wish you may have as much joy in it as I have had."

For a moment, Nethtalt looked startled, and then Thorongil embraced him like a brother, saying, "Come, your father will be wondering what has become of us."

/ (o) \ (o) / (o) \ (o) / (o) \ (o) / (o) \ (o) / (o) \

Théoden reigned in his horse, looking about him in wonder. Rising high before him a magnificent tower competed with the high peaks of the Misty Mountains, reaching for the sky like a hand of darkest obsidian. Around the spikes at the top birds circled, barely the size of ants to the naked eye, and on all sides of the base the forest stretched like a carpet. The leaves had nearly all fallen, but the prince could easily imagine the beauty of the land when spring graced it. Orthanc, watch tower of Gondor.

"It would have been a sad loss indeed to have returned to Edoras and not seen this place." Théoden breathed, his words too soft for his honor guard to hear. Spurring their horses on, they made their way quickly down the long graveled path that led to the great doors in the tower's base. It appeared that there was a figure standing there already, a white blur against the imposing black.

"Hail, Théoden, son of Thengel, second Marshal of the Riddermark." The figure's voice echoed its welcome around them as they dismounted and approached.

"And greetings also to you, Saruman the White." Théoden's tone was formal, and his bearing assured as he ascended the steps, so that it was not until he was nigh on face to face with the wizard that Saruman recognized his youth. However, he spoke not of it, and bowed as for the king himself.

"I am greatly honored to so soon welcome you, heir of Rohan. Please, allow your men to stable your horses and enter, for I would fain hear news." He gave a self deprecating shake of his head, his capable looking hands grasping a tall staff. "I am growing old, and do not travel as I once did."

Théoden's expression was reserved, but he was impressed in spite of himself, for he had come suspecting some ulterior motives in the wizard's taking of the tower. Now he wondered whence his worries had sprung, for though the man's hair was nearly all white, and his face was lined, his voice and his eyes spoke of great wisdom and energy. Hidden in these white robes was the strength of kings, and the kindness of Ilú vatar himself; for both power and humility rang in all his words. What better guardian could there be for Orthanc, should Thengel have searched the width and breadth of Middle Earth to find him?

"It is I who would be honored by such a meeting," Théoden insisted, feeling drawn to match the wizard's courtesy. His honor guard took that as their signal and moved the horses towards the stables near the surrounding walls, just hidden by the trees. There they would wait until their lord was ready to leave.

The interior of the tower was as masterfully crafted as the outside had been, with rising ceilings and smooth alcoves, a seemingly endless number of passages and chambers rising up the pinnacle high above them. They climbed several flights, Saruman speaking graciously of the rooms and the beauty of the mountains in the spring. He did not often use the lower rooms, he explained, but preferred those nearer the middle of the tower, and at the top.

"I am currently entertaining another member of my order. If you would join us?" Saruman pushed open a narrow door and they entered what seemed to be the wizard's study, with a large desk and many papers, books and parchments laid about in neat piles. On the other side of the candelabrum, burning even though it was bright day light outside, there stood another old man, quietly blowing smoke rings out the window. He was neither so tall, nor so well dressed as Saruman, but he turned when they entered and his eyes were keen as he saw Théoden.

"Théoden, son of Thengel, I present Gandalf the Gray; a wizard of my order and my good friend." Saruman's words were warm as he gestured the older man towards the younger.

Gandalf gave a half bow, his gray hair mixing with his long beard, "Hail and well met, Théoden Thengel's son." He smiled, "Long has it been since I visited the golden halls; not since the days of your father's youth, I think. You are much like him."

Saruman gestured the prince to a seat and poured the three of them glasses of red wine, seating himself with dignity only after Théoden had sat. Gandalf refused the chair, preferring instead to return to his place by the window, though he was still close enough to participate in the talk.

"And what has transpired to bring you so far from Edoras, Prince Théoden?" Saruman asked.

"Orcs out of Enedhwaith," the young man said. "They often attempt to cross our borders and steal our horses. The king sent me out to take charge of the western éoreds as soon as we received word, and we have been holding the enemy in check ever since, though we cannot drive them back out."

"No, certainly not with only the strength you hold out here." The white wizard shook his head, and again Théoden caught the barest glimpse of the strong intelligence of the old man. "It would not be unwise to call for reinforcements."

"I do not deny it," Théoden agreed, "but there are none to be had at this time."

"Oh?" This question, accompanied by a frown and a puff of smoke, came from Gandalf.

"We are currently beset on both sides." Théoden admitted, knowing it was not usually wise to divulge such information, but trusting the two wizards instinctively. "An attack by a great host of the Southrons has been made on the Wold, and only weeks after I departed the king was called thence with as many men as could be spared."

"That is an ill fortune for your people," Saruman's voice was heavy with concern. "Has he enough men to stand?"

"King Thengel is brave and resourceful, and we have forts all along the border. No one shall enter the land while he defends it." Théoden assured him proudly.

"Of course," Saruman nodded, taking another drink of wine and contemplating the arms of his black chair. "I am grateful to know of this, for your home is at least in part my own. Furthermore, its safety means much for the free peoples of Middle Earth."

Gandalf appeared to be only half listening as he gazed towards the east, but Théoden leaned back in his chair, as if uncertain what the wizard meant.

Saruman gave a half smile at the young man's expression and said softly, "You know that the fires in the east have lit once again. If Rohan were to fall, where then might the shadow go?" Then in a louder tone he finished, "But it shall not fall, nor fail. I have great faith in your father, as well as yourself." Théoden tried to keep his expression neutral, but he could not quite hide his gratification.

"How far northeast?" 

The question was unexpected, and Théoden blinked. Gandalf's bushy eyebrows were gathered and his absorbed puffing had created a slight haze about his head, in spite of the open window.

"I am not certain," Théoden admitted slowly. "I believe as far as where the Limlight meets the Anduin, but I have only received one communiqué since battle was joined, and their position may have altered."

"Perhaps, but only if his luck changes," the wizard growled softly, apparently not speaking of Thengel. At the odd words Saruman too appeared puzzled, but just then a servant entered and announced that their meal was ready.

"Ah, good," the host stood, gesturing to his guests. "Won't you join me?"

Théoden rose willingly, but Gandalf knocked his pipe clean at the window and lifted his gnarled staff and old blue hat in a determined way. "I'm afraid I have something I really must see to, my old friend. I hope Prince Théoden and yourself will excuse me?"

"Of course," Saruman assured him, Théoden nodding in agreement. "I hope nothing is amiss?" Gandalf's blue eyes caught the piercing look from his superior's contrasting dark ones.

"As do I. But I fear one might as easily hope for the Anduin to flow north."

/ (o) \ (o) / (o) \ (o) / (o) \ (o) / (o) \ (o) / (o) \

Saruman watched as Théoden's horses road away swiftly down the graveled path. The prince had only been able to stay a short while, knowing that the temporary standoff between his men and the enemy might collapse into fresh fighting at any time. Fighting… The wizard's brow furrowed as he contemplated it. //It would be so simple to take advantage of such a situation.// 

But that part of his designs would be far in the future, perhaps even when Théoden had gone to the house of his fathers and *his* son was on the throne. Whenever the time came, Saruman knew he had sown his words well. Though outwardly more cautious, inwardly he was much like his father. Yes, Théoden son of Thengel would be easy to bend and conquer.

//But not yet.//

/ (o) \ (o) / (o) \ (o) / (o) \ (o) / (o) \ (o) / (o) \

"What is this report I hear of you striking Gálmod in the village?" Kelegalen's tone was more bemused than angry, for which Thorongil was grateful. In his mind he wondered darkly whether it had been Gálmod himself who had brought word of the incident so swiftly to Kelegalen's ears.

"I lost my temper, Father, but I will make amends." Nethtalt said, not disputing the charge, and accepting the blame fully.

If anything, Kelegalen looked even more confused; the response was just what he might have expected from his son if he truly had been at fault, but it gave no further explanation. His gray eyes flicked to Thorongil, but the captain's face was unreadable. Clearly, whatever the reasons for the quarrel had been, he was not going to be enlightened.

"Very well, that can be arranged later; but my son, you mustn't let him bait you. I know you and he have never been friends, but as allied soldiers I need you to be able to work with him without striking sparks. In order that we may retain a valuable archer, can I count on you to hold yourself in check from now on?" The question was penetrating, as was the look that accompanied it, and Nethtalt met both squarely.

"Yes, sir."

Kelegalen nodded once, his trust clear, and the conversation was over.

"The wall repairs are going better than we could have hoped," Kelegalen's tone was pleased as he examined the rough diagrams of the fort he had compiled that morning. "Eorwine has better skill in organizing men than he gives himself credit for; such men are often like that."

"What of the enemy prisoners?" Nethtalt asked, his expression thoughtful. "Stavhold said they had attempted an uprising a few days ago, and there are just enough of them for it to be a danger."

"How many did you manage to take?" Thorongil asked.

"Thirty, or nearly that. They came too close to our walls and were cut off from the rest of their troops; they surrendered only when it became clear we could kill them all, and even then only half of them laid down their arms. The rest had to be forcefully subdued."

"King Thengel wishes to use them for bargaining, though what he might be bargaining for has not been stated," Nethtalt shrugged.

Their conversation was interrupted by a pounding on the door and with a frown Kelegalen rose and opened it, admitting a worried looking scout. For a moment Thorongil wondered if it might be Duurben, but this was one of the men who had been scouting towards the north, not the south, and his hair was wheat colored, not dark.

"What word?" Kelegalen asked, after the scout had given the proper salute to his superior.

"Sir, the village of Nannva is burning."

****

TBC…


	12. Astonishing Discoveries

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Sarah once again! *waves pennant the size of a walnut*

Anarril: As bad as Cassia? Why thank you! ;) Glad you liked our chapter title; and of course we had to include poor, unsuspecting Gandalf and Theoden! We wouldn't hate the guy half so much if he weren't successfully lying through his teeth to all the guys we *do* like. :) *pictures Galmod with slicked down blonde hair and a green and silver scarf* Wow, you're right! And yup, we're HP girls. Don't write fan fiction for it, but love the books! :D

LadyIsabelle: Thanks! Especially about our title; we had fun with that one. :)

Gwyn: Thank you very much! Particularly for your kind words on the reintroduction of Gandalf and poor Theoden's future. Don't worry, Legolas will reappear eventually! :)

RainyDayz: *sigh* Yes, well, we had a feeling we'd be having problems with all the Lego-fans… Alas! Oh well, I suppose once he appears, you'll be happy again, right? *smiles queerly* Oh good. And the reason we even considered it was because we wanted a chance to show Thorongil apart from elves (and since Legolas is one, it looked like we might have to boot him out as well…) Handily, we didn't have to in the end! :) Thanks a bunch! We honestly had to resist the temptation to pummel Galmod graveyard-dead there, but Thorongil restrained us. So, since we couldn't do any maiming, he let us do some mush instead! ;)

Mercredi: Thank you so much, and I know what you mean! Somehow, somewhere along the line, mild romance and female characters in general became fanfic taboo, and it's more than a little frustrating. I guess Hannah and I just decided to ignore the protests and forge ahead anyway, but it's incredibly nice to meet with actual approval! :D You're right, Theoden/Saruman is not expanded in this story, but I'm glad you liked what we did! It always struck me as one of those gaps that demanded to be filled. :) I'm glad you liked Thorongil's speech, and yeppers: Galmod's just plain jealous (though not of Nethtalt's archery). And it's funny you should compare Saruman and Galmod…

Lina: *sighs as Thorongil takes cover behind her again* Lina, if you don't behave I'm going to have to restrict you from talking to the main characters! However, you may kick Galmod a bit, if you like; I did the same thing, and I was *writing* him! Where's the logic in that…? *ducks as Saruman goes flying overdramatically over her head* And, uh, help yourself to Saruman too… ;D Nannva is the village where Kelegalen and Nethtalt have been living (also where Thalion, his wife Rokhiell, their son Aldor, and their niece Findel live). S'okay: we're a little geography-nuts! ;)

Eomer: *slips on toast, feet go flying in the air* Ouch! Yeah, no kidding it's a hazard! Why do you think we want it taken off our thread? I'm glad your horse is okay, but believe me, all that swimming in crispy bread will eventually catch up with you! For one thing, how are you ever going to make it south? Oh. Wait a minute…

None: Yep, Gandalf's back, Saruman's wicked, and Legolas is, well he's… You'll find out. Don't worry: we were no more evil than we could help! Cassia/Sio would probably have him mostly dead by now; he can count his blessings. ;)

Krismarief: Oh dear, another rabid Legolas fan! ;D Glad you're liking the story in spite of it's elven deficiencies! We'll fix it as soon as we can… ;)

phoenix queen: Gandalf is a very smart wizard, it's true! And pleased to find you, fellow Saruman hater. Thank you for repressing the language, and thank you also for all those cool new ideas of how to dispose of him!! We really need to have a talk with Peter Jackson about wizard-disposal in ROTK… ;D OH, I get it! Well, romance happens, dontcha know. ;) Thanks!

Maranwe: Welcome! I'm so glad you're liking it, and your compliment on our diction was one of the best we could have received!! 'Morwen' was the name. ;) Ah yes, ye grande chaptre lengthe debate! We simultaneously apologize for being so contradictory, and grin that you're enjoying it enough to want more! In the end, given how much we love enthusiasm (even if accompanied by rotting fruit) we will probably continue in our 6-9 page rut. ;) Ooh, good guess about the trade! I can't tell you if you're right just yet, but you're definitely close to the mark. :D Don't worry: we like friendly banter too, and while this fic may not be as filled with it as most of the MCs, we still have a good portion coming up! :)

Larus: *hugs Larus* Hullo there! It's funny, Hannah and I were just running over our list of readers, and when I realized you hadn't posted in a while, Hannah said, "She's probably busy with school; she'll post when she can." And what should I find when I come onto our thread _the very same day_? You saying you were busy with school, but now that you can, you're posting! I'm beginning to think my little sister is psychic… ;) Thank you for reviewing specifics!! A single specific is worth ten general 'wow, great writing's any day, and the effort is always appreciated! Particularly regarding our battle scenes, the Wild Men, Kelegalen and Nethtalt, Thorongil and Duurben, and *our maps*! *bounces with glee* And yeah, I nearly killed Saruman every time I mentioned his name; it was all I could do to finish the small part he was in, and I can't even imagine writing him for a whole fic. :{ LOL! Don't worry, I get worse mental pictures than that of Thorongil confronted by Ewoks! ;) In answer to your questions: No, we don't usually share actual fic ideas around the table because we like to read each other's stuff and we give better feedback if we don't already know what's coming. Tips on geography, history, and elvish we swap quite freely, though! :) And as for Thorongil hearing Duurben fall: we were wondering if anyone would notice that! Honestly? Our explanation (that Thorongil was too distracted and talking too loudly to notice) is lame at best, and ridiculous at worst, since we've put Thorongil across as one who always pays attention to his surroundings. But while, as a rule, we dislike loopholes in our logic, sometimes we just fudge it a bit and hope to be forgiven, and this is one of 'em. *sheepish smile* Thank you SO much for your feedback, and congratulations on leaving the school world!! :D

Staran: Coming up!

saber crazy: Don't hurt yourself! *gazes in astonishment at the dents in the door* :O Thanks! And sure you can borrow that, if you have a place for it. :)

reginabean: LOL! 'Hiccup' is just the word! Mm, excellent incite into Thorongil's preferred companions… ;) Yup, sarcasm truly abounds (in our house even more than many), but I shall for once be honest without sarcasm: yeah, that's exactly what we wanted! :D We said he could leave for now, mm-hm. ;) Thanks for braving the hiccups!

Asen: Sorry 'bout that! *hands Asen some aspirin* And sorry for confusing you! If it would help we could give you pronunciation guides; but really, I don't think you need to worry: this won't ever become a movie. ;)

e: Thanks! And we'll fix that cliffy; we promise! :P This is post-SOH, so we figured Thorongil and family probably would have mostly worked it out by now. ;) As for Legolas: we don't forget! We strategize. And if you're about to ask if our strategy calls for Legolas and Thorongil together in the next chapter, I can't tell you. ;)

w: THANK YOU! However well it may have turned out, doing 'sly intelligence' and 'seemingly nonsensical' is extremely hard when one is at times both 'openly idiotic' and '_completely_ nonsensical'. Once again your knack for making us smile is in top form! :) We're glad the humor came through on our archery scene -- we had begun to realize that we didn't have a whole lot of that here, due to the nature of the situation, and the fact that Legolas is largely absent from the beginning -- and we are furthermore thrilled that you liked the Galmod clash! Thorongil's last line *was* a bit on the sappy side, but we occasionally have lapses of such things, and (unfortunately) they will probably come up again. :{ Glad you liked the rest of his speech! We love spreading huge grins. ;) Last of all: we're pleased that Saruman's study went so well; particularly that Theoden made a good impression, in spite of the knowledge that this will turn into a big mistake, and that Gandalf's worry wasn't overdone! Your continued reviews are so great! :)

Elwen: Hi! Bye! Glad you're still alive, and review when you can (or don't if you can't)! We know you're liking it. ;)

I need to shut up now, or this won't get posted until this evening!!

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/ (o) \ (o) / (o) \ (o) / (o) \ (o) / (o) \ (o) / (o) \

****

Thorongil

By Sarah and Hannah (Siri)

(disclaimers, explanations, and summaries 

available at the top of chapter 1)

/ (o) \ (o) / (o) \ (o) / (o) \ (o) / (o) \ (o) / (o) \

****

Chapter 12

Astonishing Discoveries

Kelegalen was the first to speak: "Are you certain of your information?"

"Yes sir. We came to alert you as soon as we saw the smoke; there is no one stirring there, and my captain wishes to know if another scout should be sent ahead?"

"I'll go!" Nethtalt exclaimed. The young man was visibly shaken but was already halfway to the door.

"I will go with him," Thorongil followed after, barely catching Kelegalen's consent. 

The two left the guard house at a run, mounting their steeds, Maerhiin and Bregol, once they were outside of the gate. Thorongil let Nethtalt lead and they moved quickly from the fort, starting out across the plains. The chill wind of dawn bit hard against their faces as the stallions took to flight over the hilly country. Neither rider said a word as they tore up the highest of the hills; at the crest the smoke came billowing clearly into their vision, but the village was still out of sight.

Nannva was an afternoon's ride from the fort, but at their speed the two men made it there far faster. 

The village was in ruin. 

Everywhere the simple huts of the Rohirrim had been ransacked. Many still burned slowly and the thatched roofs had sunken in to consume all below. Acrid smoke tainted the air. Gray ash rose high. Thorongil turned at last to look at Nethtalt. For a moment the young man said nothing, then he mouthed one word silently.

"Findel."

Nudging their horses forward they descended the hill down into the village. Thorongil dismounted a moment after Nethtalt — the young man knew exactly where he was going. Running for one of the few houses that had lost its roof, but had not been completely razed, he burst through the door calling Findel's name, and then Aldor's and Thalion's and Rokhiell's. He came out a moment later, his face pale.

"There is no one there," he said, disbelieving. He moved through the houses systematically and Thorongil followed behind him slowly, but what Nethtalt could not bear to believe was becoming very apparent to the captain: none were left in the village. They had all been taken, to what destination and to what fate Thorongil did not know, but he felt in his heart that it would be grim news they would receive.

Nethtalt returned at last, his eyes blinking hard from more than the heavy smoke writhing through the air.

"No one," he said at last. "They are all gone from here."

"Is there somewhere they would flee to?" Thorongil asked.

"They would try to flee, but there is no where nearer than the fort from here." The young man's eyes scanned the horizon, as if to be sure there was no one returning.

"Why would the anyone want the villagers?" Thorongil wondered aloud. "Could they have been after the horses?"

Nethtalt shook his head slowly, "I don't know." 

The stable seemed relatively untouched. There were no horses to be found within. Thorongil moved from stall to stall, searching for some clue of the ones who had done this, though he had an unpleasant feeling he already knew. He came to the final stall and glanced in, his eyes lifting towards the high loft — without any warning, a large stone bale weight fell from above him. 

His quick reflexes served him well and he leapt back out of the way before the falling projectile could strike him down. It hit the ground with a heavy thud and Thorongil looked at the weight closely, then back up to the loft. He heard a soft groan of frustration and acted quickly. Grasping the support on the stall he twisted up onto the loft, moving swiftly to grab his attacker who was trying desperately to escape. He caught the assailant by the wrist and dragged him back against his chest, causing the figure to retaliate, flailing in the captain's grasp.

"Steady there lad," Thorongil spoke softly in his attacker's ear; for he realized it was indeed a young boy, only about twelve years in age.

"Let go of me! You've done enough damage! There's nothing left to burn!" 

The noise had quickly attracted Nethtalt who now climbed up into the loft beside Thorongil. "Aldor!" he exclaimed, recognizing the lad instantly. Thorongil released the boy and he stumbled forward, catching himself on his hands.

"Nethtalt!" Aldor was clearly relieved to see someone he recognized and rose shaking to his knees once more. "Nethtalt! They ruined everything! They took everything! They're all gone! Mother and Father and everyone!" 

Thorongil could tell the lad was on the verge of hysterics; he had likely been up here for several hours, too afraid to come out of his hiding place. "I will get him some water." 

The captain had no trouble finding one of the wells, which, although broken in several places, was still usable. When he returned Nethtalt had calmed the lad and after he had taken some water Aldor was ready to talk.

"It was the foreigners — the ones father told us about that took Tulganif. They must have surrounded us in the night because the watch didn't see them coming and when they came upon us we couldn't stop them. There were too many of them and too few of us. When the attack began I'd just been going to get some water for Mother; I saw them coming and knew we had to get away — everyone else was screaming and running and trying to escape. I ran inside and called Mother and Findel out before the houses started burning. They burned everything where anyone refused to come out, then they smashed in things and rounded the people up. They started drawing in on us, gathering in the ones who had nearly escaped. Father and the other men on watch tried to — but they were struck until they fell down —" here Aldor broke off as if silently reliving an all too vivid memory. Nethtalt gently rested a hand on the boy's shoulder. 

"Then what happened?" he asked softly.

"Findel shoved me toward the stable. She told me to release the horses and try and hide myself. I managed to get between the men and one of them chased after me, but I let all the horses loose and they all charged for the door, afraid of the smoke. They nearly trampled the man and in the confusion I hid in a wall panel here in the loft. I've had it as a hiding place for a long time and no one ever found me. I tried to get down after a while to try and help everyone, but when I looked out I saw the men leading everyone in the town away. Some of them were tied and some of them looked hurt — I was so afraid they would return that I came back up here and didn't come back down." Aldor turned frightened eyes up to the two men. "Why did they take them, Nethtalt?" he asked, his voice quavering.

"I don't know," Nethtalt murmured distractedly, his eyes fixed on the ground in front of him. Thorongil took Aldor gently by the arm, causing the boy to flinch.

"Do not fear me, Aldor," he responded kindly. "I apologize for frightening you. Come, let us get you cleaned up." The captain eased the boy away, leaving Nethtalt for a time alone in the loft.

After giving Aldor water to clean his face, Thorongil moved through the village. A few horses had returned and were waiting by the scorched doorways of their master's homes. All the people had been taken, and almost all had been women and children.

"Why would Southrons want such people?" he wondered aloud again, examining the ruins. 

The three of them would have to return to the fort and tell all that had occurred, though what was to be done about it was a serious question.

When Thorongil returned to the stable he found Nethtalt stroking the muzzle of a returned horse in one of the stalls. The captain approached slowly, not wishing to disturb Nethtalt, but the young man spoke up without meeting his gaze.

"Gailloth," he said softly, stroking the horse again. "It was one of the new year's foals — the ugliest foal I'd ever seen in all my days." Thorongil had to admit the horse was not very much to look at. It was a dirty gray with patches of darker gray making its coat look matted. On its forehead was a spatter of white that looked like it could be either a star or a flower, but it was impossible to tell which. "We were going to sell it," Nethtalt continued in the same soft tone, "but Findel had been promised a horse and she would have no other. She said he had just as much ability as any of the handsomer foals, and that she would not feel contented on any other… Thalion was adamant: she could have had any horse in the Wold..."

Thorongil moved quietly up beside the horse and stroked its head gently, turning a compassionate gaze on the young man. "I think she chose well, Nethtalt; in her decision she did not allow herself distracted by what others considered valuable."

"But—he's not even specially fast or clever!" Nethtalt retorted, his words stilted and his eyes suddenly turning up to Thorongil's. "He merely *is* — like any other of a thousand horses."

"Horses are rather like people, Nethtalt: no two are ever alike." He seemed to weigh his words carefully before asking, "You love her, don't you?"

The young man dropped his gaze once more, "Aye." His face was almost ashamed. "But what is the good if I couldn't keep her from this?"

Thorongil smiled slightly moving his hand to Nethtalt's shoulder and causing him to look up again, "A wise man told me once that sometimes you simply cannot prevent the things that go wrong; that in life there will always be trials and it is your duty to overcome them as best as is in your ability. Loving someone is the same way: things *will* happen to the ones you love, and when the time comes, you can only continue to care for them, and protect them to the best of your ability." Again the captain patted the horse, returning to the earlier thread of their conversation, "Findel chose well, Nethtalt. I am certain she has never doubted her choice." Turning to leave the stable, Thorongil paused in the doorway, "And if it can be done, we will bring her safely home again."

Nethtalt met his eyes and nodded slowly. 

No further words were needed as the three made their camp in the stable, intending to leave for Medui at first light. Thorongil's mind was full as he lay in the straw, keeping alert as Aldor and Nethtalt fell into a peaceful sleep. At last, though, his weariness overtook him and he drifted off to sleep.

/ (o) \ (o) / (o) \ (o) / (o) \ (o) / (o) \ (o) / (o) \

She watched as the Southrons passed her again. Silently she counted them. There were twelve here as well, just as there had been on the north, west, and east sides.

Findel gave a short sniff of disgust. These foreigners were taking no chances with them — but what could women, children and a few injured men do against a whole camp of Southrons in any case? She sighed and sat back down again next to her aunt. The woman's fever had increased with anxiety, but she was fairing better now. Findel handed her the flask of water she was reaching for.

"I don't need it, Rokhiell," Thalion protested again as the woman gently cleansed the ugly welts on her husband's back. 

"Hold still," was all she said, then: "Thank you Findel, dear." 

Findel smiled slightly at her uncle's protests. "You need to be healed or you will be in no condition to greet whatever aid we are sent," she reminded him, now handing her aunt the cloth strips torn from the edge of her skirt.

"*If* aid comes, but I do not believe it will be so easy," Thalion gritted his teeth.

"Nonsense," Findel corrected earnestly. "They will find a way, I know."

"Young faith," the man glanced fondly at his niece, and said nothing more. 

In a very short while the young maiden grew restless again and after assuring herself that her aunt and uncle were well on their own, she started off once more on her endless circuit.

There were many Rohirrim families here; the whole village had been taken. The girl had been heartened not to see her cousin Aldor — now certain he had managed to hide effectively. This, she knew, would be the only way for anyone to hear the truth of what had become of them, should their captors choose to lie. 

Findel moved slowly through the sitting prisoners, most of them hunched against the wind, and cast an idle glance about her, trying to still her hands as they pushed again at her hair. For all the security, they had been given a great amount of freedom. They were not permitted too far back the way they had come and not any closer to the Southron camp, but within these bounds they were hardly watched. Now, weary of waiting for something to occur, she determined to investigate thoroughly — unsure how much could be useful if there was to be an escape. 

There was one place she was particularly curious about: one of the tents hung farther away from the others, sitting quite near where the prisoners were. She had wondered if it could house some captain of the guard, but she had not seen any guards go in and out. A simply dressed Southron had gone barely inside once, but had quickly ducked out again, which had made her even more curious — wondering if perhaps they kept a wild beast within, though she had heard no snarls or other noises. Recklessly, unable to quench her curiosity, she had made up her mind to discover the answer to this mystery.

The sentries paid her no mind and she easily moved forward between the others of her village. When she neared the tent she slowed and appeared to looked around at nothing in particular, but instead she took note of every nearby sentry's whereabouts. Each was preoccupied — one was yelling loudly at the other who was rapidly apologizing again and again in his own language — the others were watching them, and she decided after a moment of listening that now was the time. 

She could not walk in through the door, for one sentry stood quite near it, but she did not need to. Dropping to her hands and knees she lifted the tent wall and pushed herself under.

An overpowering stench hit her instantly, like she had entered a forgotten tomb of rot and decay. Backing away slightly she squinted against the dimness, and the image that caught her eyes stole her breath away.

In the very center of the tent a stake had been driven to support its peculiarly domed roof, and bound tightly to the post was a—

Findel stifled a terrified scream as the thing turned to look at her. She backed away, horrified. The being was strange and unfamiliar to her; it appeared to have been injured in many places and now infection had set in, so that in some places the old cuts had leaked blood and fluid to mix with the dirt that covered the figure. It frightened her and mesmerized her at once, but right away she only wanted to escape it. Quickly turning she lifted the tent wall again.

"Wait—" croaked a hoarse voice behind her. The girl froze and turned towards the creature once more. 

She pressed her back against the animal pelts that lined the interior and did not move anywhere close to the thing in the center of the room. Had she been able to undo her foolish entrance, she would have gladly done so.

Never had she seen such a creature before, but now that her original shock had worn slightly, she looked closer and then felt herself unable to look away. Its hair was a brilliant silvery gold, or at least, it had been once; it was tangled, and grime had dulled it. The creature's face, as she tried to see beneath the layers of dirt and crusted blood, had been fair also. Now a horribly infected welt slashed across both cheeks. What seemed to have once been beautiful was now hidden under a sunken and emaciated shadow of its original form. 

"What are you?" she asked fearfully.

"I—I am an elf," the creature struggled to get the words out, but once they were out she felt more startled than before. 

An elf? Of course she had heard of elves, but though many stories she heard had been exciting and wonderful, some had been terrible — and this being did not now look as though it was one of the fair and noble kind she had heard about in the pleasant tales. She backed away once more, looking ready to duck away if he dared try anything.

"Please…" he whispered, noting her reaction, "I will not harm you." That idea, Findel now saw, was truly ridiculous. The elf was lashed to the stake at his waist and chest, his arms were bound behind him and anchored firmly, and a cord was also fastened about his neck. Looking him up and down, her eyes caught the food that had been thrown in for the prisoner — little or none of it seemed to have fallen near enough to reach him — and the gouges in the earth, as if the elf had attempted in vain to wrench himself loose. But even the gouges were old, as if the attempt had been some time ago and long since given up. She felt suddenly a fury towards the Southrons for their cruelty. 

"My name is Legolas," he said softly, returning her attention to him.

"I…" she trailed off, looking at him closely once more before speaking, "I am called Findel."

He smiled weakly, "Greetings Findel." He waited for her to speak again, but she seemed unsure of what to say, so he continued, "Tell me, lady, what ill fate finds such a maiden as yourself so—far from her home?" He gave a light moan as he shifted to face her more fully, his thin body sagging against the pole. 

"We are prisoners here," she replied, realizing that she had broken away from the tent wall. "Myself and all those in my village." She looked at him again for a moment, "I see you are as well."

The elf called Legolas gave as much of a nod as he could with his neck bound, "Yes, a prisoner…left to die." He added the last quietly, almost distantly.

"Why did they capture you just to let you die?" Findel asked, her compassion rising higher than she knew.

"Fear," Legolas answered after a moment. "Fear of my kind… what we might do." Findel looked at him for a moment, her eyes searching his which were a vibrant blue-gray; they seemed sad, as though some aching wound roiled beneath their calm surface. At last she moved even closer to him and knelt down right beside him.

"Could I not release you?" she asked softly.

He turned to her and some burden in his eyes seemed to lift, but then he shook his head slightly, "Nay, I would not ask that of you, and it would be a hopeless venture. There are more sentries here than you may know, I am in no condition to resist them, and one at least comes each day. They would know my bonds had been tampered with, though they barely pay me heed at all." At this last statement his words turned biting for a moment.

Findel frowned at the ground littered with stale chunks of bread and rotted strips of meat, which filled the tent with their stench. Then her brow furrowed and she scowled at the meager rations that were not even reaching the one who needed them.

"Well at least let me bring you some of my meal," she turned her eyes back up to his with such a firmness that he smiled again.

"If it would please you." 

She smiled hesitantly in return, glad that she could do some good in this helpless situation. 

"It would," she replied resolutely, then turned to leave.

/ (o) \ (o) / (o) \ (o) / (o) \ (o) / (o) \ (o) / (o) \

Legolas let his head relax against the stake. 

At last someone had discovered him here in his tomb. Yet still he despaired; so long he had gone without any hope at all, and now that it was offered to him he was hesitant to trust it. 

But the girl had given him more encouragement than he knew and deep inside him something stirred that had remained undefeated these many long weeks past. 

Legolas shut his eyes, unconcerned that his pain had been causing him to sleep in this manner often. //It is fortunate for me that he cannot see me doing this// 

The sudden notion surprised him for he had not thought of his friend since his capture. He wondered where the man was right now and if he would ever see him again. 

/ (o) \ (o) / (o) \ (o) / (o) \ (o) / (o) \ (o) / (o) \

The sun was just beginning to pierce the sky when Thorongil, Nethtalt and Aldor rode into Medui. Much had been accomplished in their absence, but Thorongil took little note of this; fixed as he was on the mission at hand. He slid off Maerhiin even as the horse came to a halt and turned immediately towards the small guardhouse. Nethtalt and Aldor were close behind.

Kelegalen looked up as they entered, his head was bent over something and he looked troubled.

"Nethtalt," he greeted softly, his voice strained. "Are you well?"

"Yes father," Nethtalt replied, confusion evident, "but the village was burned, everyone is gone."

"They have been taken by the Haradrim," Thorongil spoke up quietly from beside Aldor.

"Yes I know," Kelegalen let out a tired breath as he straightened. "This message arrived this morning." He moved around to face them his gaze lingering for a moment on his son, "In no uncertain terms they want their men in exchange for our women and children's safe return. It is to be a trade and they make clear their intentions if we refuse."

Thorongil also glanced at Nethtalt who was staring fixedly at the message. "I have already sent word to King Thengel," Kelegalen continued. "We should receive his reply by this night and will act according to his wishes." Kelegalen looked slowly from his son to Thorongil then finally to Aldor. His voice rose from its quiet tone upon his next words, "In the meanwhile, Aldor, you are welcome to stay in the bunk house in which we reside with the other men. Nethtalt will show you where." Nethtalt nodded numbly and motioned to the boy. Kelegalen waited until both were gone from the guardhouse before he turned to Thorongil once more. "Was the entire village burned?" he asked, his voice quieting once more.

"It is as Nethtalt says," Thorongil replied gravely. "Few buildings stand and none were left untouched." Kelegalen nodded after a moment and returned his eyes to the message. "What do you believe will be the king's reply?" the captain murmured.

"A difficult choice lies before him," Kelegalen answered returning to the table and moving around behind it. "He must choose between the lives of these who are defenseless and the possible release of a one that may be our undoing. We know little of the Southrons' rank and for all we know we hold now a prince of their people or a great general. Furthermore, to give in would show weakness on Thengel's part. These are chances we would normally be unwilling to take; however these women and children cannot be condemned so lightly."

"For the sake of the few or many," Thorongil murmured softly. "It is a difficult decision, but I trust Thengel to make the right choice."

"As do I," Kelegalen agreed. "Were he a tyrant, I would believe our families lost, but Thengel is wise and takes wise council. The trial is to wait and discover what his choice in the end will be."

/ (o) \ (o) / (o) \ (o) / (o) \ (o) / (o) \ (o) / (o) \

Thengel let out a long breath and laid the message on the desk before him, his eyes glancing up to meet those of the marshal. "Free yourself to speak, Bronweg, for I would hear your council on this matter."

Bronweg stood forward slightly, his eyes set upon the message lying before his king. "I need not tell his majesty the gravity of his decision. However this is not an easy matter for me to give council on. I fear it is not my duty to decide the fate of so many innocent ones."

"I would still hear your words, Bronweg, for you are trusted highest here and these are your families — your women and your children. They are under the protection of you and your men. I cannot as easily value them, for my mind is ever restless on the cost of my decision."

Bronweg nodded and after a moment he spoke, "My lord, my words to you would be those of a man who is torn between family and country. I love these people and even now these foreigners hold my younger sister and her family. I fear for her; I would not wish to give her pain. But how many are also my people, and her people? These men and women of Rohan who are under your rule mean not so little to us. We would not see our country fail for the sole sake of our own kin." Bronweg shook his head, "I cannot make this choice for you, my king, I can only tell you what I know; that your people will follow you and honor your decision, whatever it may be."

Thengel's eyes followed the marshal as he took his leave. The king sank down behind his writing table and rested his hand upon its surface. He knew every word Bronweg had spoken was true; this marshal had gained his trust explicitly for this very reason. However, even as he had spoken his brave words, Thengel could see the fear in Bronweg's eyes, a fear that he would lose his sister and never see her again. How many more were enduring that very torment? How could he, as a just king, make a decision that would shatter the hopes of his people? How could he choose death for the innocent? He refused to do this. His people were strong and he knew it was in them to fight whatever danger they might be loosing even in this decision. It was a decision he made with full knowledge of the possible cost, and it was one he was ready to pay.

"Here!" Thengel called, and a messenger moved from the wall. "Send a message to King Harnwe. We will accept his terms."

****

TBC…


	13. Thrown Into Chaos

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Hey! Hannah (Siri) Here! I *finally* got out of sabercrazy's closet! ;D

Thanks to EVERYONE for the wonderful feedback! You make Sarah and I glow! Really =D Though that may have something to do with our elven lineage! ;D (ha ha. Right. ;)

Anarril: Yeah, but then, caring about individuals is true for many leaders too, it just often causes them a lot of trouble. It's the bad-guys who seriously don't care! Oh don't worry we'll be SURE to blame Cassia. *does her evil authoress grin in Cassia's general direction*

Cali: Thank you! I'm glad you are liking it!

Elwen-Star Maiden: Yup! It's Legolas ;D Clones? Really? ;)

RainyDayz: *laughs* Sorry RainyDayz, but you did quite literally ask for it ;D Oh I am SO glad you like Findel! Wow…quite the interesting prediction there RainyDayz =D Though I'm afraid all I can say is: Read on :D

None: *hums innocently* I refuse to confirm/deny anything at the moment *grins*

Phoenixqueen: Yeah, it's true people don't usually get away with that little trick ;D If the authors don't kill um the readers always do so either way they're dead ;) Glad you're enjoying it!

sabercrazy: Well we'll just have to wait and see what Aragorn thinks ;D

Mercredi: Oh I'm glad you liked the bit about the horse! :D

Larus: *laughs* Don't worry at all Larus! We don't expect long posts, we just appreciate that you read our story and review! :D Oh and I'm glad you enjoyed our 'surprise' =D Okay Thengel's decision. Well, the truth is that Thengel is a man of honor and he knew he could not so easily condemn the lives of defenseless villagers. Then too he did not have any idea that he held Mavranor's brother, he only knew that he had Southron prisoners and in the end it was clear to him that he could not forfeit the lives of innocent people just to keep his hold on the prisoners. Then too, prisoner exchange was fairly common in these sorts of situations, but in those cases it was usually dealing with Prisoners of War not women and children. *grins* Don't worry you're not cruel! And as for happy endings…well, you never know ;D

Lil'layah: Oh I'm glad you liked the horse bit! =D Oh come now we couldn't make it as easy as all that ;D

Asen: Oh I'm glad you're enjoying it that much! :D But I'll get you some more aspirin just the same! 

Gwyn: Well that's good that you're liking it Gwyn…I think ;D

w: Oh! *hugs* We do appreciate your reviews! Thank you! Sorry it was horrible ;D Oh I am glad you liked that whole scene! Ah yes…Findel…Oh dear. ;) Okay, well the deal with Findel is that she was originally not going to be so complicated because she didn't have much 'screen time' we'll just say; but somewhere along the line her character began popping up regularly until she has a good deal of time and Sarah and I wound up with the job of maintaining her place OUT of Mary-Sueism. Part of the problem is it's getting VERY hard to write girls at all without people pointing and saying: MARY SUE! Before they see what kind of character she is ;D Also I'm afraid in this case we've got a young blonde which makes matters worse. Unfortunately both of those things could not be helped if we were going to have a Rohirrim Girl be Nethtalt's friend. *sigh* =D And as to her being the only one not to despair, we didn't mean to make it seem that Thalion and Rokhiell *were*, they were just being realistic while Findel went more towards semi-naïve optimism. Also I think it was more that she was the only one actually scouting around, and *that* has more to do with the fact that she's a restless and more than a little impatient; but I can see how that could come out wrong. *laughs* Well, unfortunately a huge zit won't do it for most people! She does have some flaws, but they are unfortunately minor because even her extended screen-time is limited enough that serious development is hard. Guess I'll just have to ask you to bear with us! ;) I'm glad you enjoy our story none the less! And hopefully you'll find her bearable in the end! :D Thank you so much again for your great reviews! And all the helpful critiques! They really are greatly appreciated! :D

Pupulupk: Thank you! I'm glad you are enjoying ;D

Cassia: Hey! Oooh sorry about the review-swallowing-site! That is always annoying! *laughs* Yes well at least YOU didn't have him entirely absent for about 8 chapters! (which, incidentally, we appreciate ;D ) Yes, we sort of let into poor Legolas and only showed the after-shock. Glad you enjoyed it! ;) Oh I am glad you are liking Findel! She's very hard to write with the whole Mary-Sue issue, so it's nice to hear she's not so bad! Oh and I *liked* your Arwen! Yeah, but I know, people had a hard time putting up with a whole chapter with her in it! Ah well. ;) Oooh! You translated them! Yeah, Sarah and I enjoy doing that with Elendor.net, we always like to put certain meanings into the characters, though, actually, I didn't know that was Aldor! Cool! :D And you got them about right so we're not laughing at all! Great job! =D *giggles* No, I think your reviews are really great! Thanks for taking the time! :D *laughs insanely and goes off to poke Chloe!* Haha! Now if she asks why I'm doing it I can say: "Cassia told me to do it!" ;D Thanks again for the review! I'm glad you're enjoying it! =D

Well everyone! I hope you enjoy this post! Now I'll leave before you go crazy! =D

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/ (o) \ (o) / (o) \ (o) / (o) \ (o) / (o) \ (o) / (o) \

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Thorongil

By Sarah and Hannah (Siri)

(disclaimers, explanations, and summaries 

available at the top of chapter 1)

/ (o) \ (o) / (o) \ (o) / (o) \ (o) / (o) \ (o) / (o) \

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Chapter 13

"Thrown Into Chaos."

Thorongil pushed between the men who moved hastily about Medui in preparation, making his way steadily towards the armory. He entered to find Kelegalen sorting weapons, sliding a dagger with horses carved along its handle firmly into its sheath. 

"I have heard from Nethtalt," Thorongil said, by way of greeting. "You are to lead the exchange?"

"Yes," Kelegalen confirmed with a grim nod. "Myself and for the Southrons: Brerg, a general, I believe. We have agreed upon the place of the exchange; it is evenly spaced between where we will be stationed and their camp. According to King Harnwe's missive we will each release our prisoners simultaneously and let them pass each other just outside their camp; our men will then lead the women and children to Medui where they will stay for the present, and the Southrons will take their men back to their own camp."

Thorongil nodded; doubtless the Southron was attempting for there to be as little contact between his men and the Rohirrim as possible, but it sounded fraught with complication, and the captain could see by looking at Kelegalen that his friend did not like it any better than he. 

"Tension will be running high," the older man said, as though replying to Thorongil's unspoken question. "All it will take is one mistake and all will be thrown into chaos." Kelegalen moved up to him and placed the sheathed dagger in his hand, "Thorongil, I have great faith in all whom I have decided will accompany myself on this venture. I have a great trust in you. If there is to be trouble, we must be the prevention, not the cause."

Thorongil took the knife from Kelegalen's hands and nodded firmly, "I will see to it that your trust is well bestowed."

/ (o) \ (o) / (o) \ (o) / (o) \ (o) / (o) \ (o) / (o) \

Brerg ran one hand over his tousled dark hair, a hand that had been browned by sun, calloused by war and been the cause of much bloodshed. He now looked out across the rolling hills of the Wold and an odd, unnerving smile crossed his prematurely lined face. This was the moment for which he had waited; he himself had led the raid and now he was seeing the fruits of his labor. These horsemen would not be a hard people to conquer — simply capture a few women and children and they would crumble to any demands made; it was all too easy. 

The Haradrim were an honorable people in battle, they would never make a move like this one under any other circumstances — but even though Brerg was blood Southron through and through, he was unlike them in a single way: he delighted in the bloody fall of his enemies. It was his joy and glory; almost the air he breathed. In his life none stood in his way for long, least of all a nation of insignificant horse herders. He would take pleasure in their defeat, and the magnificence of the land that his monarchs longed for was simply an additional benefit, not a true motivation. 

He looked forward now to retrieving Gwanur, a friend whose influence had long aided him. It was largely due to befriending the king's brother-in-law that Brerg owed his current high position. Once Gwanur returned they would be able to prepare an attack on the Wold, one that could not be resisted. 

The Lady Mavranor was there herself, awaiting the arrival of her younger brother. Brerg turned a careless eye over the group of captives standing at the very outskirts of the camp. A hard wind had stirred up and it whipped the golden hair of the Rohirrim below — it tugged at the edge of a tent nearby and at last slid out across the plains, on towards the west. His smile broadened and he also turned to look out once more, squinting at the sun above him. 

//Soon,// he thought to himself, returning his gaze to the hills. //They will be here very soon.//

/ (o) \ (o) / (o) \ (o) / (o) \ (o) / (o) \ (o) / (o) \

Thorongil entered the hold with some difficulty. It had been built against the wall of Medui and was hewn into the ground; the opening was also close to the earth and was not easy to enter: he had to bend his head low to move through. His ears were immediately met by the muted voices of the guards and the soft clink of chains from the prisoner's bonds. He reached the bottom of the steps and turned the corner into the dungeon area of the hold, four cells lined each wall, and between them two Rohirrim guards stood speaking quietly in their own tongue.

"Greetings," Thorongil spoke also in their tongue and they turned to him in surprise.

"Welcome," one responded; the other did not speak. "We did not hear your approach. What brings a captain down to their level?" he asked, gesturing towards the cells.

"I have a message for the current warden of these men," Thorongil explained, preparing to hand the message to the man.

"I am not he, I am Folca," the man refused the message with a brief shake of his head. "Stavhold here is warden."

Thorongil's attention was suddenly drawn to the other man, the one who had not spoken. Now he realized it was indeed Stavhold.

"I am the warden, Captain Thorongil," Stavhold greeted him formally. "Kelegalen told me of your arrival."

"Yes, it is a pleasure to see you well Stavhold." 

The Rohirrim nodded slightly, and looked at Thorongil squarely out of his one eye; the other had a leather patch over it and Thorongil knew that it was sightless.

"You also, Captain," Stavhold said, but his voice held obvious discomfort. Thorongil handed him the message then backed away slightly.

"I will take my leave then. Folca," he nodded to the man who gave a nod in return. "Stavhold," Thorongil nodded after a moment, and Stavhold returned the nod, but did not meet his eyes this time.

Thorongil left the hold and stepped out into the sunlight. He let out a breath and watched it dissipate in the cold air. It had not been a pleasant meeting, as it had not been a pleasant parting. Stavhold had been unwilling to join the fight for the freedom of the slaves in Mount Gundabad. Though Thorongil had begged him and Kelegalen had begged him, Stavhold had given in to his fear and despair and would not aid them. Kelegalen clearly trusted Stavhold once more, but even so Thorongil wondered if the man would ever leave the disgrace of his actions behind him — if he would ever be free of his own shame.

/ (o) \ (o) / (o) \ (o) / (o) \ (o) / (o) \ (o) / (o) \

The morning was broken as the procession moved out from Medui. Ranks of Southrons walked between the horsemen selected by Kelegalen. Each Rohirrim was stationed to keep the prisoners within their boundaries; they were guarded closely. 

What made the sight unusual, though, was that they were seemingly traveling nowhere, over a path that was gently worn across the rolling hills with the only sign of civilization at their backs. Thorongil turned in the saddle once more to stare up at Medui: it was cast with the bright sunrays that stained shadows into the ground around it. 

Even at this distance he could see the men moving within its walls, restlessly awaiting the return of their friends and families. Thorongil had known purpose in his life; he had recognized well the worthy aims that were often placed in a soldier's road, the causes that were worth fighting for and the things worth dying for, but never had he felt the weight of his responsibility drive him to such disquiet. He felt unease tighten around his heart and heard the faint whispers of danger playing about him. The sky, though the sun shone brightly, was dusky and gray and seemed to press down on them from above. Even the steed he rode trembled beneath him, as if anxious to bolt. Thorongil lay a reassuring hand on the beast's neck, "Easy, Maerhiin." 

The horse quieted under the captain's gentle hand, but Thorongil knew there was no way to stay the apprehensive spirits of the men. He glanced over at Nethtalt who was reining his own horse, Bregol, in closer; the horse was both younger than Maerhiin and also more fiery. Nethtalt's eyes, like those of his mount, darted from the ground ahead, to the prisoners beside him, to his father before him; but even then his eyes continued to stray until they lighted on Thorongil who gave him an reassuring nod. The young man nodded in return, but did not fully relax. There was a threat in the air that could not be ignored. 

Thus they pressed on and Thorongil kept his eyes open, alert for danger and ever watchful for their destination.

/ (o) \ (o) / (o) \ (o) / (o) \ (o) / (o) \ (o) / (o) \

The wind rustled the grasses, the faint caw of a bird of prey was heard, and somewhere in the distance a horse let out a fierce whinny. Brerg's face lighted with the same strange smile of anticipation once more. 

They had arrived.

In another moment the men of Medui crested the hill before the Southron camp and began their descent into the gully beneath. Brerg motioned to his men, giving a curt order in his own tongue, and they too began to descend. The one who ran before the other Rohirrim seemed to be their leader and Brerg silently sized the man up and gave a disdainful grunt; this was all they could send? He motioned his men to a halt at the predetermined place, not a furlong away the Rohirrim also drew up their steeds. For a moment they stared across to one another. Then in a simultaneous motion, Kelegalen and Brerg signaled the groups of prisoners forward.

/ (o) \ (o) / (o) \ (o) / (o) \ (o) / (o) \ (o) / (o) \

Maerhiin stirred beneath Thorongil once more and the man steadied him automatically. He squinted his sharp eyes across the low gully to the villagers slowly moving towards them as the Southron prisoners also began to move towards their own people. The captain could see mothers pulling their children close, keeping them near the others. 

For several breathtaking moments, the prisoners moved slowly on open ground. Then the air itself seemed to stand still around them as the two groups met in the center and began to move slowly past one another. 

Thorongil heard a hoof stamp impatiently, a young child gave a start as she came too near a Southron soldier, all was quiet and the slightest breath of air or impression on the grasses could be heard.

After what seemed an eternity, the two groups neared the end of their passing, the last few Southrons passing by the last few women and children. Thorongil felt his breath come to him once more, as it seemed that all would at last be well.

Then suddenly, one Southron — younger than the others and very close to the rear — twisted around and grabbed a Rohirrim boy roughly by the arm, yanking him out of line. The lad gave a startled cry that shattered the silence. The tension snapped like a worn thread. Chaos broke loose.

At the moment of advantage, the former Southron prisoners bolted for their camp — at the same time snatching Rohirrim women and children, trying to retake them as hostages. This was only allowed to continue for the space of a few heartbeats, however, before Kelegalen's riders dove down into the gully to retake their families. Kelegalen was unable to give a single order before they had all left his side. Each dismounted upon reaching the bottom, so as not to trample any young ones, and drew their weapons. At the top Thorongil and Nethtalt alone stood beside Kelegalen, but he now motioned them forward. 

"We must retake them before the Southrons do!" he called. Thorongil followed Kelegalen's lead, but Maerhiin was swifter and reached the bottom of the hill before the other two. Flinging himself from the saddle, Thorongil rushed the Southron nearest him, breaking his grasp on the two children with whom he was attempting to escape and pushing them both towards a woman just behind him. Across from them the captain saw Brerg's men charging down as well to gather up their own men. Thorongil knew they must try to rescue the villagers immediately, for against such reinforcements the Rohirrim would stand little chance.

As the approaching Southrons reached the bottom of the gully, Thorongil was already there and began immediately to set upon them — stalling them before they could even reach the fray. A heavy forward slash laid one out full length, tripping up two others; on the back cut the captain slashed one across the middle, then turned to the next — however, they were coming on too fast and most of the Rohirrim were too busy regathering the villagers. An arrow, buzzing with the strength of its release, struck hard into a Southron's chest, sending him flying back. Thorongil turned in time to see Gálmod loose another arrow, his strong fingers pulling the string back almost to his ear as he fired. Nethtalt's and Kelegalen's praise of his archery had clearly not been misplaced, and the man quickly dispatched two more of the Brerg's men with one shot, then stood and continued to hold many of them at bay.

Thorongil's attention was abruptly drawn back to the villagers — though most of the women and children were now behind Kelegalen and his men's defense, there were still others among the Southrons. He heard Nethtalt calling frantically for Findel and automatically his eyes flicked over the confusion of close-packed bodies for the young maiden. He did not sight her immediately but as he turned to duck the blow of a spear handle aimed at his head, his gaze turned toward the Southrons' camp. A soldier — the one who had disrupted the trade at the start — had her tightly by her arms and was dragging her forcefully away. Without pause, the captain pursued them, his sword drawn as he called over his shoulder. "Nethtalt!" 

The young man caught sight of him and started pushing through towards them. But before he had come far, Thorongil had already reached his target.

The Southron was fairly young in years, but his eyes were fierce and his expression defiant. He drew out a dagger and put it to Findel's throat the moment he caught sight of Thorongil.

The girl was giving the Southron a hard struggle, twisting and clawing, but it was doing her no good. The captain moved closer; the young Southron pressed his dagger more firmly to the girl's throat; the time was short. But the Southron's stance was too loose, and Thorongil already knew what course to take. Charging the soldier suddenly he gripped the man's dagger hand and yanked it forcefully away from Findel, prying the girl from the Southron's grasp. Hastily, the captain pushed her away and lunged, bringing the Southron to the ground and sending the soldier's knife skittering into the grass. 

For a moment the Southron ceased to struggle and Thorongil let his guard lax. His grip had loosened only a little when he received a knee in the stomach, and reflexively he jerked and fell back a little. The Southron pushed his advantage: slamming his fist hard into the captain's jaw and thrusting his knee again into Thorongil's stomach. The captain fell back a little further, winded by the blow, and the Southron rose, finally able to draw his scimitar. Thorongil was gasping, bent over his knees.

"Look out!" Findel shrieked suddenly and a moment before the Southron scimitar came down on his head, he drew out Kelegalen's dagger and thrust it into the Southron's abdomen, twisting it sharply before releasing it. A look of shock came over the fierce dark eyes and the man dropped his scimitar, staring at the dagger. Then he fell back and struck the ground, dead.

The captain breathed heavily and looked up from the dead man. To his eyes came the briefest sight of a women, high on the hill before him. She was dressed in red and stood out brilliantly against the clear green behind her. Her eyes were fixed on him, dark and cold. 

He was startled by her appearance for only a moment, though, before an urgent voice reached him.

"Findel! Findel!" Nethtalt ran up to them and quickly hugged the girl. She returned the embrace, looking near tears of relief. "Are you all right?" Nethtalt asked, his voice breathless from his run as he already began to draw her away.

"I am unhurt," she reassured him and followed for a few paces, then abruptly turned her head back to Thorongil. "Oh! There's another prisoner yet in that tent!" 

"Another prisoner?" Thorongil questioned, surprised.

"Aye!" Findel called over her shoulder. "We mustn't leave him!"

"I'll go!" Thorongil called back. He looked out at the crowd of Southrons and Rohirrim. The women and children had all been pulled away from their captors and were now withdrawing quickly from the gully. The Southrons had given up the attempt and were returning with equal speed to their camp.

There was little time. Running swiftly to the tent Findel had indicated, he pushed inside, casting the flap open as he entered. It was dark and for a moment he could not see the prisoner of whom she had spoken. 

Then a soft sound drew his eyes to the pole supporting the tent and his heart fell away in the greatest shock he had ever felt in his life.

"_Legolas!_"

****

TBC…

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Ha! See there they are! In the same place and everything! …right….um… *hides*


	14. Found

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Hey everyone, it's Siri again! =D And BOY am I mad!! Sarah and I have been trying for the past two days to upload our chapter and as happened to Cassia: _FF.net just would not let us post!_ Erg. *goes off to smack a certain server up one side and down the other* ! Sooo sorry about the delay!

Here we go!

Cali: Oh my. Well I TRIED to hide, but it didn't exactly work, somehow the readers always know where I am ;D

None: Thanks!! I'm afraid it's little too late for 'your Legolas' to be found unharmed…yeah…just remember it wasn't MY fault! =D

RainyDayz: *makes sure she's carefully placed out of hugging distance* Oh well, that's awful nice of you RainyDayz! :D *laughs* Yeah, my siblings don't like it when I scream during fanfics either, except for the ones who do it themselves ;D And yes! You are Miss Prediction Extraordinaire! Sarah and I were laughing so hard when you practically predicted the whole chapter!! You deserve many cookies and ribbons for such great foresight! :D Yes, we'll remember that CARRIED bit ;D I'm so glad you enjoyed it RainyDayz! Thanks for the great review! =D

phoenixqueen: OH! Thank you phoenixqueen! We're glad you enjoy our story so much! Hope your Sign Language Performance went well : ) Oh my! Yes that guy was not the brightest light in the harbor, not to mention the fact that his own stupidity got him killed in the end! *laughs* Yeah, Aragorn's never too happy with his friend's often horrific injuries which, thanks to people like Cassia, Siobhan and Chloe, have become quite the norm for him! :D  


Elwen-Star Maiden: *laughs* Be kind to the poor clones Elwen! =D Glad you're enjoying it! And yes, I'm afraid we very rarely give our characters a break!

Staran: Thank you Staran! I'm glad you're liking it!

Asen: The woman on the hill was Mavranor, (as you may soon discover), yeah, it's kinda hard to catch, but when Brerg his waiting for the Rohirrim to arrive, he notes that the "Lady Mavranor" had even come to watch. :D Yes! And Legolas and Aragorn are finally back together!

Lil'layah: Yeah! It took them a long time didn't it? ;D

Gwyn: *blinks innocently* Well, of course! We couldn't possibly have everyone all together like that and NOT throw the whole thing into massive chaos! Where would be the fun in that? ;D

Anarril: Yeah, that couldn't help being a pretty big shock! Though Cassia and Sio certainly have quite a filing cabinet full of big shocks! :D No, sorry, can't kill Brerg ;D We may need him later! ;)

Lina Skye: *covers ears* Oh man! I had no idea she had that kind of lung power! That's perfectly all right Eomer, I understand she must be busy. :D Good luck getting her South though! ;D

Mouse: Glad you like it! :D Sorry about the cliffy but that's the way the posts fall sometimes, and other than that…well it's Sarah's fault ;D

w: That is QUITE all right w! We don't mind if it's a little short at all! And in fact it really wasn't very short. =D Oh, I'm glad you like that. Yes there are times when we do that on purpose for the sake of the flow, but other times it's accidental. I am glad that it comes out well! :D Oh good! I'm glad Findel has (at least for the moment) escaped the realm of Mary Sue. :D And that you think she was better here! :D Yup! That was Mavranor all right, for future reference the 'red dress' kinda gives her away ;D 

LadyIsabelle: Glad you're enjoying it! :D Yes he's back again!

Maranwe: Don't worry, there will be more action soon :D Hey! Another person who guessed our 'devious' plot! Great job =D OH! I'm glad you like Findel! Yes we have conflicting requests for the chapters length, I'm afraid all I can say is that some are long some are short, we try to equalize it as much as possible but sometimes we don't have much choice. :D Glad you're enjoying the story!

Enigma Jade: I should get one of those harness thingies ;D Don't worry! We have another post! :D

reginabean: *grins* Right! Of course! =D

Krismarief: I'm glad you're liking it! :D

sabercrazy: Sorry, you kinda have to wait. =D Her brother? Now *what* would make you think that? *smiles innocently* I'm afraid you'll just have to wait and see. ;D *laughs* A torture detector? That's interesting! =D

Hiro-Tyre: Yeah, though I'm afraid it wasn't our fault this time :D Doesn't it get boring in the 'Mists of Lurker-Doom?' I went there once but couldn't stay long, I just talk too much ;D Yeah, that whole omnipotent thing might go straight to your head ;D Wouldn't want that! =D *laughs* No, he didn't die! At some point we mention that he went with a scouting trip with some of the Rohirrim before the trade was even mentioned. :D I'm glad you're liking it!

And here it is folks: the next chapter, and I'm finally gonna be quiet and let you read it =D 

Hope its worth the wait!

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Thorongil

By Sarah and Hannah (Siri)

(disclaimers, explanations, and summaries 

available at the top of chapter 1)

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Chapter 14

Found

At the sound of his name Legolas looked up with some difficulty, but he did not recognize Thorongil as a friend. The elf closed his eyes tightly and shuddered.

"Come to finish what you began?" he asked tonelessly. Thorongil dropped quickly to Legolas' side and drew his own small knife from his belt, sliding it carefully through the bonds that held his friend's hands and then the ones at his chest and waist.

"Legolas," Thorongil spoke quietly as he slit the looser cord at the elf's throat. The elf slid forward weakly at the sudden release and fell against Thorongil's chest. "Legolas, it is I," the captain whispered as he put an arm around his friend.

"Stri—Strider?" Legolas questioned faintly, trying to look up at the man. His eyes suddenly gained an astonished gleam. "Strider," he said more certainly.

"Yes it is I," Thorongil gave a relieved smile. "My friend, what are you—" he broke off, "Never mind that now, I must get you out of here." Rising to his feet, Thorongil drew the elf up with him, supporting his weight as he led Legolas out of the tent. Casting a quickly glance over the plains, Thorongil could still see the Rohirrim leading their women and children back to Medui.

Thorongil gave a sharp whistle and Maerhiin came charging towards them; the animal had obviously waited for his master and thankfully the Rohirrim had not tried to take the horse with them. Thorongil lifted his friend up onto the horse then swung up behind him.

A sharp crack was heard as a projectile of some kind ricocheted off a large rock by Maerhiin's feet. Thorongil looked up and saw several Southrons rushing towards them, weapons at hand. Thorongil gave a brief order to Maerhiin and the horse sped away from the attack out across the gully towards the retreating Rohirrim. At the same time he drew Legolas against him. The elf hissed in pain and Thorongil relaxed his grip slightly.

"Hold on my friend, just hold on." 

The captain turned to look back at the Southron camp once more before charging full in the other direction. It was a miracle that none but the enemy had been killed in the disaster and it was certain they could never risk such a calamity again.

/ (o) \ (o) / (o) \ (o) / (o) \ (o) / (o) \ (o) / (o) \

Mavranor ran down the hill at great speed, heedless of her image for the moment. She had only one thing that concerned her and nothing else would deter her attention. Dropping down by the lifeless body laying on the ground she wept bitterly, stroking her brother's face and calling his name again and again. Her brother, whom she had held as a baby, played with as a child… Tears fell like scalding rain down his cheeks, but they came not from him. His dark eyes stared blankly at her face without recognition; cold and lifeless. He was dead! The Rohirrim had murdered him!

//No// she remembered suddenly as she turned to look the direction the Rohirrim had fled. Her eyes grew fierce as her she recalled the death she had been forced to witness. //No not the Rohirrim — the man. The man with strange eyes and dark hair; different from the Rohirrim people// She could remember him vividly — see him as he cruelly drove his knife into her young brother's body. She gave a broken scream that rent the air, her hands jerking the bloody knife from Gwanur's body. Getting to her feet she stood as the cold air burned her cheeks and whipped her dark hair behind her. This man had killed her brother. And if ever she saw him again, he would pay dearly for his crime.

She clenched her fist about the knife, the horse carvings along the handle impressing themselves into her palm. _Very dearly._

/ (o) \ (o) / (o) \ (o) / (o) \ (o) / (o) \ (o) / (o) \

Thorongil drew his cloak gently about his friend and stayed a good distance behind the others, not wishing to raise their alarm and knowing the fears Rohirrim had for elves. He tried to be mindful of the elf's wounds, which were harsh. None had been tended to properly and most had become infected; the elf had also been starved and felt frail as an autumn leaf within his hold. Thorongil had no way of knowing how long his friend had been held, but it had left the elven prince terribly weak. 

"What did they do to you?" he whispered softly as Maerhiin wove steadily after the others. 

The moment Medui was in sight there were cries of joy and relief from the Rohirrim and many picked up their pace, desiring the safety of the fort. Riding in closer as well, the captain could not help but smile at the reunions of families all around him.

Thorongil held tightly to his friend and had the uncomfortable feeling that the elf had lost consciousness, but with so many people around him, he dare not pull back his cloak to see. After a moment he caught sight of Kelegalen and made his way towards him. 

To his good fortune Thorongil found the older man was standing alone, watching the activity around him. Kelegalen smiled when he saw the captain but this smile quickly turned to a frown and his eyes squinted briefly in an expression of concern as he sighted the covered figure riding slumped before his friend.

"Thorongil—" 

"Kelegalen," Thorongil broke in smoothly leaning close to the man standing beside him, "it is Legolas, he was imprisoned in their camp. I know not how he fell under the Southrons' hold, but he has been badly hurt and I must see to him. Is there somewhere I can take him where he will not be seen?"

Kelegalen was obviously startled, but came to himself with admirable swiftness and nodded, "Yes of course, there is a tent in amongst the workmen's shops that was erected as temporary lodging; it is empty now and you can stay there as long as you need it." He motioned in the right direction and Thorongil spotted the tent easily.

"My thanks," he whispered before urging Maerhiin onwards through the crowd.

The tent was safely out of the way, having been braced between two of the shops against the wall Medui's western wall. No one would have need for it and it was likely to be passed by without notice. Thorongil pulled back on the reins bringing Maerhiin to a full stop before he dropped to the ground and gently pulled Legolas down after him.

Part of his cloak fell back from his friend's face, and Thorongil winced inwardly; it was only half recognizable as that of the prince of Mirkwood. 

Entering the tent, Thorongil found a cot near the back and lowered Legolas down on it as gently as he could. Pulling the cloak fully from his friend, he inspected the various injuries. He was not sure of broken bones at present, but what he could see on the outside was enough to fill him with mixed remorse and anger.

Leaving Legolas only for a moment he retrieved his pack from Maerhiin's saddle bag. Catching sight of a young lad who he knew worked as a stable boy, Thorongil motioned to him and turned the weary horse into the boy's care before returning to the tent. Legolas was stirring when he entered and moaned as the motion aggravated several wounds.

Thorongil moved quickly to his friend's side and rested one hand on the clammy forehead. "Easy my friend, all will be well."

"Stri…" Legolas twisted feverishly and Thorongil gently eased his friend's movement; waiting until the elf had lapsed back into unconsciousness. 

At last he set to work cleaning and dressing the many wounds and he found bruises on the elf's back as well as his chest. Thorongil let out a breath; that likely meant he had fractured a rib. Moving as swiftly and as carefully as he could Thorongil bound each hurt in turn, being sure he had done all he could for one before he passed to the next. The fractured rib was not easy to set, and Legolas jolted almost awake when Thorongil attempted to right it, but Thorongil murmured several words in the elf's own tongue and managed to settle him once more.

Finally the work was done — not to the captain's liking in the least, but it would have to do for now. He was low on medical supplies and would have to ask Kelegalen for ointments later.

Thorongil waited patiently for his friend to come around again and until he woke the man brewed a warm drink he knew would help the aches the elf would undoubtedly be suffering.

A quiet hiss was the first indication that the elf had at last regained consciousness. Thorongil quickly drew beside the cot where his friend lay and when the elf's eyes opened he looked up in confusion for a moment.

"Strider," he whispered hoarsely, as though he didn't understand. "What are you doing—"

Thorongil silenced him with one hand, "Don't try to speak just yet, Legolas, you've had quite an ordeal from what I can see." He smiled slightly and Legolas made a weak attempt to return it. "I don't understand why this always happens to you my friend," Thorongil continued casually causing Legolas' smile to broaden slightly. "It may be you are naturally prone to such dangers, but it will be the death of you one day, or the death of me." Legolas' battered face suddenly fell. It was such a slight change of expression that Thorongil barely noticed it, and he did not address it. "What do you need, my friend?" he whispered gently instead, helping Legolas to rise to a sitting position on the small cot.

"I'm thirsty," Legolas replied weakly.

"Ah," Thorongil gave another smile and rose, "that is an ailment I can easily remedy." Returning in a moment with the drink he had made, Thorongil handed it to the elf, who drank it down without objection. He closed his eyes for a moment and relaxed as the liquid warmed him and felt relief as the ache ebbed away slightly.

"My friend," he smiled fully at last, though it seemed to pain him, "I am grateful that even though I find so often myself in such trouble, you always seem to be somewhere near."

Thorongil laughed at that, "I dearly hope that I will always will be! I owe your rescue a great deal to a young maiden, Findel. It was she who told me of your whereabouts."

"Findel is safe then?" Legolas seemed suddenly interested.

"Yes, they have all arrived home now," Thorongil nodded, then frowned. "I am actually very curious how she knew where you were, and how you, in turn, know her."

"That is a long story," Legolas gave the predictable reply with a wry smile.

"One I am much in suspense to hear," Thorongil replied with a laugh, "but first I insist on assuring myself that you are well. You look as though you have not eaten your whole life, and a great deal more water would be best, if you can handle it." 

Legolas shook his head in disbelief, "Why do you humans always have food on your minds?" 

Thorongil made the pretence of looking hurt, though it did him no good, "Why is it you elves never consider important matters? Now I shall not be long." He moved to leave but Legolas' voice called him back.

"Strider…" Thorongil turned back to look at his friend. "Thank you," Legolas whispered softly, Thorongil nodded and smiled.

"You are most welcome my friend."

True to his word, Thorongil returned to the tent with haste, having retrieved food and drink for himself and Legolas. He seated himself beside the cot where the elf was now sitting with ease. 

After a moment of silence, Thorongil looked up from his food with a questioning gaze, "Will you now tell me how you came to be held prisoner in the Southron camp?"

Legolas considered a moment then nodded. "I had been on my way to Lothlórien on business for my father. It was a long journey, but a pleasant one, and I did not suspect any sort of danger. Then, when I reached the place where I had to cross over the Anduin to Lothlórien I realized I should have taken the Ford by the Carrock."

Thorongil chuckled lightly and looked up at his friend, "I could have told you that; you should have had a guide, Legolas!"

Legolas smiled weakly then looked down. "Perhaps," he agreed. "I decided to instead stay in the forest and try to find a way to cross the next day — but I stumbled across a camp of Southrons and — I-I was captured by them—" he broke off suddenly and looked up at Thorongil; his friend was staring at him closely as though trying to read his mind.

"They captured you…" the captain prompted after a moment's pause.

"Yes," Legolas continued, hastening on. "I was taken to their camp. Many of my injuries were acquired while we traveled, but when we arrived their king was not pleased. I gathered that he feared I was from Lothlórien and that when my absence was discovered, the elves would attack him. So he ordered me imprisoned in the camp…and then he forgot about me altogether. I can't actually say how long I was there; I lost count of the days." Thorongil let out an angry breath before allowing his friend to continue, and Legolas hesitated a moment before returning to the tale once again, "A man was put in charge of feeding me and bringing me water. He brought me out a few times, but I nearly escaped and then he ceased to do even that; he merely threw my rations into the tent where I could seldom reach it. Sometimes he would come in drunk and would rage about with a lash. He disliked his assignment and took it out on me, but he was not often capable of doing me much harm; it was only that I could not dodge the blows. I had about given up hope of ever escaping, if indeed I could survive the neglect, and that was when Findel found me." Legolas paused and actually gave a slight laugh, "All humans, you know, are extremely curious creatures; my tent intrigued her and she just simply couldn't ignore it. So she investigated, found me, and after overcoming her initial fear she brought me food…" He trailed off and waited a long moment before adding in a detached way, "If you hadn't come just then, though, I probably would have been killed." 

Thorongil looked up, surprised. "What do you mean?"

"I said the man disliked his duties: he finally was thrust beyond endurance by some mockery amongst his fellows. Since it was assumed I had been left for dead… he tried to kill me. One of the senior guards came to investigate and he left before he could be caught in the act, but I have no doubt he would have managed it if I had remained." Legolas let out a short, relieved breath, and it seemed as though a great load had been taken from him, "That was when I assume you arrived, but I cannot remember it well."

Thorongil nodded in affirmation. It was a harsh tale indeed, but he couldn't help feeling that something had not been confided and it worried him. He was about to speak when someone entered the tent behind him.

"Findel," Thorongil and Legolas greeted at almost the same time. She smiled and greeted them awkwardly before handing something to Thorongil. 

"I apologize for disturbing you, Captain, but Kelegalen asked me to bring you these ointments in case your supply was not extensive enough."

Thorongil took them from the girl and smiled, "Thank you."

"I am glad to see you well, Legolas," she greeted the elf behind Thorongil and Legolas inclined his head to her.

"Thanks in great part to you, I am to understand, my lady," he smiled at her and she smiled uncertainly, still not accustomed to conversing with an elf.

"You are most welcome," the girl replied at last, before turning back to Thorongil. "Kelegalen also wished me to inform you that he has alerted Nethtalt and the Warden to your presence; however no one else knows that there is an elf here, and he wishes to leave it to your discretion on how you desire to proceed."

"I thank you," he said again then nodded to her. "Please also inform Kelegalen that I will speak to him on this matter later." She gave a short nod in return before taking her leave.

"'Captain'?" Legolas queried, one eyebrow raised as he blinked slowly.

"Long story."

The other eyebrow joined the first, "At what time has an elf ever been deterred by *that* excuse?"

"Since he took a slow-acting sleeping draught in his tea," Thorongil returned calmly.

The elf's eyes went wide, though with seeming difficulty, "That was a rotten trick, Strider!"

"Blame my father. I'll catch you up on my doings later; don't worry."

The last thing Legolas saw before he drifted off to sleep again was his friend's reassuring smile.

****

TBC…


	15. The Long Story

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Sarah is back! Didja miss me? :P Sorry that we didn't give you an early post, but since lots of you guys read SoH as well as this, we generally prefer to alternate posting days with Cassia/Sio so that we don't overwhelm you! :)

reginabean: Nice dance! And nice descriptive two letters there: 'ek'. Does this mean you doubt our abilities to make this a happy/cheery/sunshine-and-roses kind of fic? ;D

Anarril: _oo…I foresee owies on Thorongil's part. _LOL! Maybe you should buy yourself pointy ears, a white beaded dress, and a birdbath and go into business! ;) Yes, we enjoy a good cliffy, but ours seldom match Cassia and Sio's… *sigh* I'm glad we made you laugh! ;)

Asen: Certainly no fury like Mavranor scorned! She's smart, but she's something like barracuda-meets-woman. Honestly? It's Siri's fault! Um, that Mavranor is nasty, I mean, not that-- oopsie! Can't say. :D I'm thrilled you liked the straight face!! I had a very definite mental picture for that one, and wondered if anyone else would see it. *big grin* As for orc-blood: not a chance! That is, unless you start yelling 'Find the halflings!' and coating yourself in mud… then you might want to worry. :P

Enigma Jade: Wow, we had you that anxious? Amazing. And thanks! :D

RainyDayz: *glances at soggy plushie* Hm, uh, yeah! Good thing! ;D I'm SO glad you liked it!! And I love it when people list details like that! Not that I'm not pleased when people say 'oh wow, the whole chapter was great!', but I'd generally almost rather they only like a few things out of the post and actually mention them. Thanks!!

Lina: Old habits die hard, eh? After all: you've been riding along on Eomer's horse since… *scratches head* golly, I don't quite know how long! Speaking of Eomer: GET OVER HERE, SHE'S MAULING THE VILLAIN! *ahem* And Findel, I assure you, barely even *talks* to Thorongil in this, so you may not maul her either (no matter how jealous you are)! ;D

Eomer: That *sounds* scary. I wouldn't want your job. Even if she did go peacefully this time. :P

None: Perhaps because we're incapable of leaving our heroes alone? ;) Don't worry, we won't kill your elf!

Gwyn: *bows* I'm glad you approve! And we never get to see what Mirkwood thinks about this, to be honest… Probably steaming mad; at least, Thranduil would be. :)

LadyIsabelle: Thanks! Glad you liked it! :)

saber crazy: Nice chicken. ;) And yeah, there's one in every story! Thorongil and Legolas are officially doomed for life in that area. :D

Mouse: Thanks! There's not much action in this one, but we're gearing up; don't worry! :)

Mercredi: Yes, Legolas has been away from his friend too long! He's beginning to forget all of the human's favorite tricks… ;D I think Legolas just doesn't want to face that it happened and he's trying to avoid it by not bringing it up. He also feels a little guilty, yup! :| The deal with Mavranor is pretty much that -- as much as she is capable of doing so (being the selfish person she is) -- she really does love two people in her life: her husband and her brother. For Harnwe she's a little more blunt (she tells him when he's goofed, even if she does believe that whatever the Southrons as a people do is okay), but for Gwanur she has more of the 'my darling baby brother can do absolutely no wrong' attitude (we decided she'd raised him mostly by herself). Thus in her eyes the idol of her childhood has just been murdered-in-cold-blood, not killed-while-making-a-really-stupid-move-and-getting-other-people-slain-pointlessly. *sigh* Yeah, she's a little wonky just now. ;) Why of *course* we must beat up the heroes! *smiles innocently* Thank you so much! :)

Elwen: Yeah, he's been through a lot. *evil smile* But not nearly enough! Mwahahaha… Oh, er, yes: we're posting! :D

Cassia: WOW! *throws a party for Cassia-the-signed-in* We are very honored. ;D And we're *so* glad you liked it!! In fact, so glad that we are going to honor your request. *digs through files* Let's see what else we can do to these two… ]:D

phoenix queen: First off: WE LOVE YOU TOO, PHEONIX!! And -- whoa, Cassia and Sio? Really? *turns beet red and grins idiotically* Gee, thanks! :D Yeah, clearly nobody gave the Southrons the Mellon Chronicles Handbook when they captured Legolas, or they might have been more careful… ;) Thorongil doesn't like blood feuds, blood feuds like HIM! ;D No, we don't favor a cold uncaring Thranduil, but it's a long trip to and from Lorien, so Thranduil's probably only just now beginning to wonder what's keeping his son. ?:| Legolas is, as you say, not good at keeping secrets indefinitely from his best mellon. Pretty? We'll see… ;) And quote away! We enjoy quotes, really, because specifics are always so much fun. We derive twice as much enjoyment out of a single specific than out of three one-line posts that tell us 'the whole chapter was great'! 'Wooping'? Well… :D Congrats on your successful signing!! *hands out more luck* Half that is for your second performance and the other half is for that paper. (20 pages?? Ack!) :D

w: Thank you ever so much!! The more serious aspect was one reason we really felt Aragorn's errantries should be covered; it seemed like such an interesting transition time to us! And believable? There are few compliments so wonderful as that. ;D *gives w flowers* They're from Findel! It's really a relief that, in spite of a semi-rocky start, she's beginning to gain approval. Now if we can just ease her over one last Mary-Sue-drifting-bump (several chapters from now), we should be all set! ;) Once more: you have the eyes of an elf, w! You have again caught us in the middle of an OIG (or in this case OWG): Oops, We Goofed! I suppose we will go with the excuse that he was just 'more out of it than we thought', as you suggested, but the honest truth is that we forgot. Sorry about that! :{ *bows* And thank you so much on the grammar! I've actually been trying to fix that particular little foible as we post. It's funny how, once you know what to look for, you suddenly wonder why you never saw it…? ;D

Okay, another kind of slow chapter…

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Thorongil

By Sarah and Hannah (Siri)

(disclaimers, explanations, and summaries 

available at the top of chapter 1)

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Chapter 15

The Long Story

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'Nor indeed am I a stranger; for I have been in this land before, more than once, and ridden with the host of the Rohirrim, though under other name and in other guise.'

— _Aragorn, The Two Towers_

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The first thing Legolas saw when he awoke was an empty tent. He blinked slowly, trying to gauge the time of day from the way the light and shadows shifted on the roof above him. It looked to be late afternoon or evening. Meaning it was the next day and his friend had either drugged him heavily or else drugged him repeatedly. Or perhaps he had been more tired than he had thought.

He shifted, raising himself up on his elbows. A sharp pain caught him as his thin body, too long confined to one position, protested, but it was not as bad as when he had first lain down. He looked about for some sign of what had called his friend away, but there seemed to be nothing amiss and he pulled himself to a standing position, stretching gingerly and grimacing, "Fine thing to do, Strider: abandoning me in a camp full of semi-superstitious humans." He smiled, knowing he had not been forgotten, but he also lifted a long strip of bandaging material and tied it about his head in an impromptu head band. It served to cover his ears, the only thing about his rather less than tidy appearance that gave him away as being different.

The flap of the tent lifted to admit a dark haired man, and Legolas scolded dangerously, "You're a miserable, wicked, back-stabbing human and after a trick like that I really ought to hurt you — no matter what your intentions were."

The man stopped short, staring openmouthed, "I-I beg pardon."

Legolas started and his head flew up, recognizing abruptly that, though possessing the same coloring, the new arrival was most certainly not Strider. "No, indeed — it is I who should apologize; I believed you to be someone else."

The man was already backing out, "It matters not. I was told that the captain had this tent, and — but I was mistaken."

"But he does!" Legolas assured him quickly, taking a chance that the captain the man was referring to was Strider. "Please, sit; he will be back soon I'm sure, and you look weary."

The man sat awkwardly on the edge of the cot and accepted the elf's offer of water, but all the while Legolas could sense his uncertainty. Whatever the soldier had expected to find in his captain's tent, it hadn't been a hostile and badly damaged elf — or damaged man, as it appeared to him.

"Is there something amiss?" Legolas asked, chiefly to make conversation, but the man immediately stiffened, as if suspecting a spy.

"Not exactly," he hedged.

There was a long silence, during which the dark haired man cast increasingly wary glances at the elf and Legolas sat back in the shadows, hoping to minimize the discomfort of the situation. 

Abruptly the soldier asked, "Did Captain Thorongil say when he was going to be back?"

//Thorongil??// "No, I'm afraid not."

Another silence. The suspicious glances turned even darker and the man seemed to be working up to something. Finally he demanded, in a voice clipped with distrust, "Why were you threatening the captain? I assume it was for him that you mistook me."

Legolas almost felt inclined to laugh at the protectiveness in the bristling expression of the soldier before him, //What is it about Estel that attracts these sorts of people?// "I'm sorry about that —" he paused interrogatively.

A terse grunt: "Duurben."

"Duurben. It was a jest on my part, and not intended to be serious in any way. Your captain and I have been friends for a great many years, and as you may know such familiarity often breeds a peculiar sort of humor."

The initial expression on Duurben's face inclined Legolas to believe that he did not in fact know, but it smoothed into something else. Almost a sort of curiosity, if the elf could have thought that of such a soldier.

"I see. And how, may I ask, did you come to be here at such a time?" the question was less hostile.

"Not through any design of my own. I was taken by Southrons far north of here, and was found in their camp by the Rohirrim."

Duurben looked up in surprise, "What were the Rohirrim doing in the Southron camp?"

Legolas blinked, "I thought you would have known."

The soldier shook his head mutely, offering no explanation.

"There was a prisoner exchange with the enemy. It did not turn out well, I believe, but beyond that I am unsure of the particulars. I was not terribly alert at the time."

"And the captain went along?"

Legolas' tone was dry, "If you have known him for very long at all, I'm certain you already know the answer."

Duurben's mouth curved almost imperceptibly, "Aye. Has he always been like this, then?"

The elf nodded, accepting the more conversational tone in the other's voice, "Very much so. I suppose it is in his blood."

"Oh?" the syllable had the faintest undertone of innocence.

Legolas shifted painfully, and nodded again, but offered no more on the subject. "How long *have* you known him?" he asked instead.

"Since he arrived in Gondor three years ago, though I have only served directly under him for two years. The first I met him was on the battle field, fighting against King Muindor of the Southrons; the same who is even now attacking our borders. He had command of a small company of archers that he led close to challenge their war beasts. It was a brave move, but considered foolhardy by some." Duurben stared at the walls of the tent, glowing faintly with the late noon sun outside, as if he were seeing beyond them.

"What happened?" the elven prince prompted.

"Through some means or other, the company slew fully three of the monsters. Unaided. More than half the men died or were fearfully injured, including the captain himself. He was found by the remainder of his men, half buried beneath the last corpse." Duurben looked up, meeting the elf's eyes, "To this day I do not know how he survived. But he did, and the Steward made him a captain — only to leave him in the city guard, largely ignored."

"If it is any consolation, Duurben, I doubt Thorongil minded," Legolas said, using the odd name, but not without a flicker of hesitance. "Men like him: so thoroughly caught up in the safety of others, and heedless of their own gain — it is not in his nature to enjoy renown. He always preferred quiet, if it could be had. Such men once existed throughout Middle Earth: who fought bravely out of need, without sparing themselves; yet did not hold battle up as a pursuit unto itself. And it is your privilege to be serving under one of the few left of that race." 

The elf's words seemed to refer back to old battles, close escapes, and long travels of which Duurben knew nothing; but the soldier could easily sense the respect and long friendship lying there. For perhaps the first time since his oddly greeted entrance, he fully relaxed.

"As for survival," the elf added on a lighter note, "he is the happy possessor of the skills of healing and the blessings of Ilúvatar himself — else there is no explanation for his continued existence."

"Might one suppose that he had help as well?" Duurben asked shrewdly.

"One might," Legolas agreed cautiously, not wishing to give either himself or Thorongil's adoptive father away. Glancing up for a new thread for the conversation, he frowned at the dimming daylight, "He is late."

Suddenly Duurben started. "Breon!"

"Who?" asked Legolas, surprised.

"My horse — it had passed from my mind, but she is still tethered outside. I must get her to her stall; she deserves more rest even than I. Will you simply tell the captain that I was here and that I must speak with him soon?"

"Of course," Legolas reassured him, smiling inwardly at the man's concern for his animal. Some elves he had met narrowly believed men to be far too calloused to understand animals. Such elves had, of course, spent little or no time around humans.

With a final nod and a gesture of farewell, Duurben turned. He paused for a moment in the entrance, "I am pleased to have met you. Though you have spoken but little, you are just the sort of man with whom I should have imagined the captain would be friends."

Legolas realized that he had just been paid the man's highest compliment.

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When Thorongil entered his tent, it was to confronted with a very alert elf who was clearly not going to take 'wait' for an answer.

"It's 'later'," Legolas announced firmly.

"You're up earlier than I would have thought," the captain observed, shrugging off his cloak and pulling the tent flap closely shut against the chill of the evening air. "But then, you always did heal faster than I."

"Getting out of that camp was a great relief to me," Legolas replied. "Not to mention seeing you again. But you are changing the subject, *Thorongil*."

The owner of the title sank on to the edge of cot next to him, smiling tiredly, "I wondered how you would react to that. Do I not look like a Thorongil?"

"It's not that; it is merely that I believe you have quite enough extra names," Legolas returned laughingly. "'Estel', 'Strider' and now yet another one. When will it end?"

"This from someone whose species delights in naming and renaming everything they lay their eyes on," Thorongil retorted, snorting aloud at Legolas' look of pretended injury. "As it happens, I am no more responsible for this newest title than for either of the others you have mentioned. But I don't recall passing it on to you."

"You forgot to. Duurben came bursting in while you were gone, and since I had already taken precautionary measures," Legolas lightly tapped his covered ears, wincing a little as he did, "I made free to gather what little information I could from him."

Thorongil rose to retrieve his medicines again, ignoring the elf's scowl, "I did not realize that he had returned! If he has abandoned so much native propriety as to enter my tent without announcing himself, something urgent must have occurred." He appeared to be contemplating immediate departure to find his lieutenant, but Legolas grabbed his sleeve and met his eyes steadily.

"Please, Strider. I have not seen you for several years and have missed you sorely. Will you not tell me a little of what has happened since we parted last? I should prefer to hear it from you than from Duurben or Kelegalen."

Thorongil sat again, "Of course, Legolas. I'm sorry, I did not think; I have been hurrying about so much of late, I have rather misplaced the art of resting. And I have missed you as well." He pulled out a salve, taking off the elf's head band and examining the cuts on his face, "I've often wished that I could have persuaded you to join me. Duurben is a good friend, but he is very much set on being a good lieutenant also, and I am not used to the sort of paradoxical relationship that has taken shape between us. I should have much preferred to have stayed a common soldier so that we could have met as equals; that was all I set out to be. I wished to learn more of the ways of my own people, and not just the Dúnedain. You know that my father both agreed and encouraged me, and after leaving you I disguised myself as a nameless soldier and came to Rohan. They are a friendly people, generally, and accepted me readily, teaching me their language and their songs and histories."

Legolas caught the faint satisfaction in his friend's voice. Though Thorongil had been accepted in Rivendell and Mirkwood alike, it had been by no means instantaneous. As a human surrounded by elves, the young Estel had found himself often out matched, out run, and outside the circle of all but his adoptive father and brothers. Slowly, over nearly thirty years, he had carved out a niche in both his own elven home and that of Legolas, but it had been an arduous undertaking and the swift approval, without thought or question, must have been as pleasing as it was startling.

"They also taught me to ride," Thorongil was still speaking, "such as I had never thought possible for any other than elves. I served for seven years under various captains, including the Chief Marshal for the latter years, and met King Thengel at that time. I also gained a new name to fill my supposed lack: 'Thorongil', 'eagle of the star', because I always wore the same brooch. Then I moved on to Gondor, and within a year I was firmly entangled in a captaincy." The man's tone was mildly disgusted. 

"Come now, Strider, you cannot tell me nothing good came of it," Legolas chided, and flinched again as his friend's fingers brushed a particularly infected welt.

"Perhaps," Thorongil conceded grudgingly. "It was good at least to be able to see to my men personally, rather than to be left wishing someone else might act; I had some control over their well being. But I am thoroughly unused to the sort of authority with which I have been entrusted. The Dúnedain give me honor as their leader, but in the wilds such honor has no opportunity to become ceremonial or cumbersome. Here…" he shook himself, "but I stray. I have since served in the guard of the citadel, and it was there, several months later, that Duurben was transferred to my company and I first met him. He had participated in a border skirmish in which I had also been called to play a part and so I'm afraid he observed me with a sort of combined hero-worship and unwavering curiosity; I swear that he has been the most difficult man to hold my secret from since I left home ten years ago!"

"I gathered as much," Legolas said dryly. "He attempted to glean some information from me as well, in spite of the fact that I mistakenly threatened him."

"You did what?" Thorongil was rinsing his hands clean in a wooden basin, and now he stared.

"I thought it was you entering, and that *was* a horrible trick to play on me, no matter how often Lord Elrond used it."

Thorongil laughed suddenly, nearly upsetting the basin, "You know perfectly well what an incredibly stubborn personality is yours, Legolas Greenleaf! I should actually have been surprised you stayed abed as long as you did. However," and he turned serious again, "I hereby forbid you from doing anything strenuous until your strength returns. Your injuries may not be the worst you have suffered, but you are weaker than you admit. I won't have you charging off for Lórien again, half cured, and turning up on your father's doorstep as a ghost. Whatever the message was, it was not worth loss of life!"

Thorongil had expected an argument, but surprisingly the elf said nothing. His face was almost devoid of expression as he nodded.

The captain eased the elf's head band back over his ears and gestured that he should lie down. "Rest some more, and if you wish we can talk later. Just now I must go find Duurben and see what kept him."

"Yes, Captain," Legolas replied obediently.

"Don't you dare," Thorongil warned. "'Thorongil', or else I'll start calling you 'prince' and give you away in front of all Rohan."

TBC…


	16. Unforgiven

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Sarah once more! Oh, and this one's a little short… *nervous laugh* We're gearing up for something more exciting, really we are! :D

Staran: Thanx!! So glad you liked those bits; we were rather partial to them. ;D

saber crazy: We're glad you like our posting schedule! That's actually part of the reason why we decided never to post WIPs (that and fear of writer's block). ;) 'Forever Haunted'; hm, that would make a great fic title, don't you know! You should write it. You already have all the stuff to stick in it: psychos, arrows, torture, and cliffs. *matching sadistic grin* And yes, they will always have ample sources of teasing material. ;D

Elwen: I'm sure he'll remember to make eye-contact eventually, but until then: it's so much fun getting him in trouble! :D And speaking of trouble: nope, being identified as 'Legolas, son of Thranduil, elven prince of Mirkwood' would not be good right now. ;D

Elemmire: Really? Thanks!! And here we were worried it might be too slow… :D

Gwyn: Yup, trouble can be squished temporarily, but it always pops up again unless it's dealt with. *sigh* Glad you aren't going to protest! ;) And the headband: no, actually, we finished this fic before Cassia and Sio started posting theirs, so any similarities are purely coincidental. Not that coincidences don't happen on a regular basis! ;D

phoenix queen: Whoops! I think that's actually the first time we've spelled it wrong, if for no other reason than we have one of those automatic-spell-fixer thingies -- only it doesn't work on all-capital words like that last one… :P *hands phoenix an ice pack for her jaw* Thanks! And, er, sorry about that… :} Oooh, yes we love quotes!! Yup, he only drugged him once (smart boy), and Legolas was not happy (stupid elf). We don't have it in for Duurben really, but he just keeps showing up in the wrong place at the wrong time… *shakes head* Thank you also on Thorongil's names and luck (two subjects which I guess we just couldn't help bringing up again)!! An extra big hug for posting on this, in spite of your busyness! :D

Anarril: Nope, no owies; don't worry, they're coming! …Slowly. :} Indeed: poor Duurben! He had no idea when he hooked up with Thorongil that there was an elf hidden in the package… ;D And nope, we didn't purposefully take the headband idea from Cassia (we actually finished this fic before she started posting SoH), but I do believe it's fairly common amongst fanfic writers in general. After all: you have to hide the guy's ears! Straw hats would look stupid, cowboy hats don't fit in Middle Earth, helmets are generally cumbersome, and the weather is almost never right for earmuffs… headbands are the natural solution to all those problems! ;D

None: Peaceful indeed! For now… :D

Mercredi: Thank you so much! Yeah, Legolas is pretty quick in the thought department, and yes, Duurben is beginning to lean towards 'rabid' in the curiosity department. ;D I'm glad you liked our interaction; it's tricky hitting the balance without (a) damaging one of the characters, or (b) copying what someone else (particularly Cassia/Sio) has already done. ;P I think Thorongil understands both the need and the importance of taking charge -- he's just fine with being the leader of the Dúnedain -- but he is frustrated because *this* time he only wanted to be a soldier. It is through bad luck (?) alone that he wound up a captain in spite of himself! ;) And thanx a bunch on our ending! You're so sweet. *grin*

Mouse: *bows* Hanta le! :D

Lina: Ho boy! Maybe they react that way because you really ARE scary sometimes… Poor Duurben! ;) *watches Lina run out and start yelling* uh… ho boy. EOMER! *Aragorn runs up and bonks Lina on the head* Okay now, be nice. Aragorn: But I've always wanted to do that! Sarah: You just said that, but just like I don't want her killing Mavranor because then we can write the story, I also don't want *you* damaging *her* because then she can't write feedback. *Aragorn grumbles, but hands Lina to Eomer* Thank you. *pats unconscious Lina on head* Congrats on spring break! :D

Eomer: Uh, yeah, I think the confetti was a little much, but it was a nice thought. ;)

w: Thank you x 10! You really missed Duurben? *idiotic grin* Wow! And I'm so glad you liked the meeting of the two! What we wanted most was to keep the characters realistic and also prove that Legolas and Duurben each have their own personal places as friends of Thorongil. *'nuther idiotic grin (Sarah is prone to them when immensely pleased)* We avoided sappy! Hooray! I'm glad you liked their conversation and relationship so much; it's important, since they are the two main characters, that we do that correctly. ;)

Just so you know 'Unforgiven' doesn't refer to Legolas… And this chapter is a bit slow as well, but here goes! (We speed up eventually: scout's honor!) :D

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Thorongil

By Sarah and Hannah (Siri)

(disclaimers, explanations, and summaries 

available at the top of chapter 1)

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Chapter 16

Unforgiven

Duurben rose respectfully to meet his captain, ignoring Thorongil's tactful attempt to keep him seated. Kelegalen and Eorwine were also gathered about the small fire.

"I'm glad to see you have returned, Duurben; I was beginning to wonder what had kept you." Thorongil sat beside Kelegalen, taking in his withdrawn expression. "What has happened?"

"On our return we found the body of a Rohirrim messenger, a Southron spear through his heart," Duurben explained briefly. "He had been carrying a message for Captain Eorwine, but it could no longer be found on his person. We were left to conclude the enemy had taken it, and we returned the body to Ladin. We offered to take a duplicate copy of the message with us when we returned."

"What did the message say?" Thorongil asked.

"It spoke of King Thengel's plans for the defense of our forts," Eorwine said heavily. "We are to meet the enemy openly upon the fields and retreat to the forts only if badly pressed. In this way the king hopes to prevent our walls from falling before the enemy does."

"And should this information prove useful to the enemy?"

"Perhaps not," Kelegalen admitted, "it is by no means an unusual maneuver, and it would take little skill to guess, but the event is unsettling. It shows that the Southrons are becoming bolder, if they came so close as to slay a messenger directly in between our two greatest strong points. And who knows what a clever general may create from such knowledge!"

"If anything, it could possibly make him overconfident," Thorongil suggested. "They have no means for bringing down your walls, except perhaps their war beasts, and a chance to meet you in the field may strike them as fortunate. They do not know of the Rohirrim's skill with horses."

"Perhaps not," Kelegalen said again, but sighed. 

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Thorongil rolled over, effectively pulling his own blankets off, and woke. He was alone in the tent. Rising with a yawn, he lifted the flap and went outside, shivering in the biting air of the early morning. The only movement in the rest of the camp was a few soldiers on specific errands, but Legolas would not have risked such a walk even so. Glancing down at the dirt, Thorongil spied light markings leading around behind the tent and through the narrow alley between the rear of the row of workshops and the wall of the fort. Following the trail north, Thorongil found himself on the hills, empty of buildings because of the thick scattering of rocks. Atop a large one of these sat a pale figure, its face turned towards the Anduin and into the wind.

"Will nothing keep you in bed until a decent hour?" the man pretended to groan as he made his way to his friend's side.

Legolas cast a sidelong glance at him, "You didn't have to join me, you know."

"Aye, but I am attempting to keep you from catching a fever. I won't have you limping around half-dead, my friend, so help me I'm not." 

The comment was both wry and stubborn, and the elf laughed aloud, "Strider, you are the most startling combination of child, elder, soldier, healer, man and elf I have ever had the privilege to aggravate. I feel fine."

"You don't look it."

"You don't either."

The captain made a half-hearted shove at his hair and frowned darkly at his friend, "That's not the point."

"Then what is? I won't have you limping about on me either. My ribs are practically mended, my strength is returning, I slept well; my face is sore, but that is all. You have barely seated yourself in three days."

"I'm sitting now," Thorongil retorted.

"Child."

"Elf."

There was a companionable silence.

"What were you doing?" Thorongil asked at last.

"Listening. If you are still, you can hear the Anduin as it rushes to the sea, horses in the Wold, and distant men chopping firewood. Then the camp begins to waken and it is all drowned out."

"Are you not pleased to be surrounded by men?" the question was frank.

"That is not it," Legolas shook his head. "I have watched these Rohirrim, and I spoke long of them with Nethtalt and Findel yesterday when you were gone. I admire their courage to protect their homes and also their honor in dealing with each other. Perhaps I also pity them; elves have not fought against elves for many thousands of years — but I know it is difficult to look into the enemy's eyes and see a portion of yourself."

"It is," Thorongil agreed soberly. "And it is something I am sure Ilúvatar never meant to occur, but free will produces flaws as well as virtues in men and elves."

"Someone approaches," Legolas murmured, and a moment later, footsteps could be heard coming closer.

"Thorongil?" It was Kelegalen. "Eorwine thought he saw you start out this way. What are— Legolas!"

The elf rose gracefully, smiling in greeting, and then accepting the embrace the man offered, "It is good to see you at last, Kelegalen."

"I am sorry I did not see you sooner, but men seem ever to be calling me hither and yon. I am glad to see you so well — though Thorongil had told me you were recovering rapidly."

"I am feeling quite well," Legolas confirmed, casting a glance at his companion. "Well enough to leave that tent, at any rate."

"Legolas felt an overpowering urge to listen to men chopping firewood before the sun was up," Thorongil teased his friend. "Whatever my feelings on the matter may be, it would likely be well for us to establish him as an accepted resident of the camp. His own clothing is practically not fit to be worn in the cold weather anymore," here he eyed the shabby state of his friend's garb beneath the concealing cloak, "so I will need to lend him some things of my own anyway. If he keeps his ears covered and curbs that haughty elven walk of his, he should be able to get along without attracting attention." And at the word 'haughty', Thorongil ducked as his friend made to slap him upside the back of his head.

"Of course," Kelegalen nodded with a chuckle that slowly changed to a frown, as if a stray thought had crossed his mind. "Legolas, what did you say you were listening for?"

Legolas stared, as did his friend, "Men chopping firewood, near the river."

Kelegalen spoke as if he were alone in his own head, mulling over a peculiar problem, "Nobody in camp would be chopping anything… but the only trees near the river… and that could…" His head snapped up, "Thorongil, we may need your plan a little sooner than we had thought."

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Legolas fastened his tunic and sighed almost imperceptibly. Almost.

"What?" Thorongil demanded with raised eyebrows. "Do not even bother starting off on how I smell: half of those are Nethtalt's."

"I dislike imitating humans — the results when I've attempted it have been problematical at best. And why is it humans take such little trouble with the what they wear?" The elf brushed absently at the trousers, looser than the ones he wore usually, and shook his head, "It will be next to impossible to move unobtrusively in garb such as this."

"We can't all be immortal artisans," Thorongil chided philosophically, not hiding his merriment. "And it only looks that way on you."

"Thank you, Thorongil," Legolas' tone was wintry, and he tugged carefully at his headband to make sure it was snug. "Let us hope that nobody sees through this. I would rather not be chased out of Rohan just now."

"Yes," Thorongil agreed, seemingly thinking on another vein. "Are you certain you want to stay, for this? You still have the message from your father."

"Actually, I do not. It was taken from me," Legolas said briefly. "And I can go to Lórien and tell them so as soon as this is over. Though I did not actually read it, I know it was not terribly urgent. This is."

Thorongil nodded and smiled his thanks warmly, "I shall be very glad to have you."

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The stable door creaked unevenly on its hinges as Thorongil pushed it open, carrying Maerhiin's saddle bag. They would not be bringing the horses with them all the way but instead leaving them in Nannva.

He did not notice there was anyone else in the long, dimly lit building until they moved, and even then, it took him a moment to recognize the man.

"Stavhold?"

The warden nodded, stepping from the shadows to brush the other side of his horse: a quick, pale tan creature with an equally pale mane.

"You have a fine animal," Thorongil complimented, running his fingers through the mane of his own mount.

"Aye, Throssteil is a good beast," Stavhold agreed, his tone that of a man speaking to himself.

There was a long silence. Towards the back of the stable, Gálmod's horse, Espalass, nickered, and Maerhiin stamped in response. Thorongil hummed a sad song from his childhood under his breath as he groomed his animal, and the wind murmured beyond the walls. The beams above them creaked.

"I never thanked you." The low words were almost inaudible.

Thorongil turned, his face gentle, "For what?"

"For my life," Stavhold whispered. "Never, not once." The brush moved rhythmically, "And when you asked for aid, which I could have given… I turned away."

"I understood what you feared, Stavhold," Thorongil told him. "It was no small thing to ask of any man."

"Do not excuse it," the man muttered with a sort of broken ferocity. "You can never excuse it! I was a *coward* — a creature lower than a man — not even fit to die amongst them."

"I did not say I excused, Stavhold," Thorongil said firmly. "But I *do* understand," he caught the man's gaze squarely, "and I forgive. All of it. Just as Kelegalen, and Nethtalt, and Legolas have. It is forgotten between us."

The remaining gray eye and the black patch stared from the man's lined face, like a soul half living and half fettered. His voice rasped as his throat seemed to constrict. "I — cannot forget."

The door creaked again and the man was gone. Thorongil sighed sorrowfully, resting his forehead against Maerhiin's warm side. In the next stall, Throssteil watched her master leave with dark, mournful eyes.

/ (o) \ (o) / (o) \ (o) / (o) \ (o) / (o) \ (o) / (o) \

The guardroom was full, but the crowded feel was due more to the smallness of the room than the number of men. There were only eight, counting Legolas, and all picked specifically by Kelegalen for this undertaking. By the wall sat Thalion and Gálmod; Duurben sat behind Thorongil and Legolas; Kelegalen and Nethtalt leaned together over a small map of the Wold; Stavhold stood in the corner, half hiding in the shadows.

Thalion closed the door and Kelegalen straightened. "Before we leave, I feel it is necessary that we understand where and why we are going. Some of you were present when Thorongil said he felt we needed to examine the enemy more closely, now that the Southrons have taken such an initiative with us. During the past few days Thorongil's friend Legolas has been out early on several occasions and has caught the sounds of wood being chopped."

There were a few interested glances cast at Legolas, but they seemed to accept him without suspicion. Stavhold leaned back even further, so that the only half of his face visible was obscured by his eye patch.

Kelegalen continued, "The only large sources of trees near enough to be heard are across the Anduin in the North Undeep. There are no Rohirrim living in that area, therefore the only possibility is that he has heard the Southrons.

"And if there are enough of the enemy to require them to encamp on both sides of the river, we may be in greater jeopardy than we have long supposed. The only way to be certain is to cross the Anduin and spy out the land ourselves."

He looked around, catching the eyes of each of them in turn, "Eorwine agrees with my instinct on this matter and has asked me to oversee this and I have in turn chosen each of you for very sound reasons. We cannot afford to bring greater strength with us for fear of discovery, and we will be unable to request aid if we are beset, therefore we must be cautious above all else."

****

TBC…


	17. You helped me through

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Sarah once more! (_person in back: _hooraaaaay.)

LadyIsabelle: You like elven hearing too? *grins enthusiastically* So do we! It's such a useful feature. ;)

Gwyn: Oooh, the evil writer's block!! *shrieks and hides* Hope you lose it soon! Hannah and I both had a couple really bad cases of it while writing this. :P Glad you're liking it, and hope you like our action when it comes! :)

RainyDayz: That wasn't a groan, that was a 'yehaa!'; though of course, not because ff.net was giving you fits! We know how *that* can be. *glowers* Congratulations: you have completely caught every single kind-of-Meldir-reference to date!! We wondered if anyone would notice those… The remaining question being of course: will Thorongil notice? More specifically before he winds up unintentionally making Legolas feel even worse. ;) Thanks, by the way: some people find our sense of humor rather frightening. ;D And it's okay Rainy! Really, we weren't sure whether anyone would remember Stavhold or not; his part in Death or Despair wasn't terribly memorable. He kind of summed it up in the stable there, but if you want to look him up in D or D again: he was introduced in chapter 3, lost the sight in his right eye in chapter 7, and refused to help Aragorn, Legolas and Kelegalen in chapter 10. Probably chapter 10 is the one you'd be most interested in! :) Thank you so much!!!

None: You had problems too? So did Rainy. It's okay, though, we *completely* understand! ;) Thank you so much on their conversation!! With so many great Aragorn/Legolas writers out there (*ahem* Cassia *ahem* Sio) we have a lot to live up to if we want to write this genre. ;)

Staran: Thanx!! :D

Mercredi: Thank you first of all on Legolas' senses (very useful things: elven senses) and our Strider summary!! *grins and hugs self cheerfully* I love it when people like the parts I really wanted them to like. ;) As for the 'man fighting man' idea: a very big hug for you! Whenever we try to address that sort of thing there is always the worry we will go too far, or not far enough, or some other such twiddle or twaddle. :P It's so great to find out we have done neither! :D And Stavhold? I rather hope that myself. *sits back to watch story as if she has no control over it whatsoever* ;)

Marianna: Welcome, welcome!! We so much love new readers, no matter how tardy they *think* they are. ;)

Anarril: Owies? Soon? Oh, um, we're working on it. :D Glad you liked that line!! And ah the trickiness of SSC (Siblings Sharing Computers). With eight siblings, it got really tricky before Hannah(Siri), Chloe and I each got laptops. :P

w: Thank you so very much! We read your review right after we got up this morning (around sixish) and it started our day off just right. i.e. we grinned at each other and forgot to gripe about early rising on school mornings. ;) Thorongil will address what he's been noticing soon! I'm glad our method of handling that went over well; we were battling between having Thorongil notice and not having it seem so urgent that he would up and demand to know what was going on. About our tension: we're so relieved we aren't losing you with this! We hadn't originally intended for everything to take so long… :} And a special thank you on the Stavhold scene, which was rather a pet of mine, in spite of its brevity. Such bits of feedback make me guess at what a mother must feel like when she's told her children are pretty. ;D Wow, though -- that counted as a cliffy? Cool! Er, I mean, uh, sorry about that. ;) You're right: the day Thorongil and Legolas manage to do something simply will be the day Sauron chucks his own ring into Mt. Doom and turns to a life of giving candy out to hobbit children and replanting trees in Fangorn on the weekends. :D

Here is your new post! Enjoy! :D

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Thorongil

By Sarah and Hannah (Siri)

(disclaimers, explanations, and summaries 

available at the top of chapter 1)

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Chapter 17

'You helped me through.'

The sky above was heavy with stars and the air was still. The rush of the Anduin overcame the thrum of the insects in the trees, and covered the faint *shhhhhh* of something being pulled up the grassy banks. Several thumps sounded as the thing reached rougher ground and bounced over hidden stones.

"Careful," Kelegalen cautioned, "we know not how far afield their sentries are stationed."

Stavhold nodded in the dark and steadied the small boat that he and Duurben had shared. Legolas was pulling the grass close over a second boat and Thorongil had slipped a little further on to aid Thalion and Nethtalt. They had crossed without mishap, though the river was wide and choppy during this season and it had taken nearly an hour of steady work. The air fogged before them as they exhaled.

"Thorongil, take Gálmod and Legolas south and look for sentries. We will scout along the edge of the wood and find a place to hide until morning," Kelegalen instructed softly.

When the three men returned, Nethtalt met them at the boats and led them into the trees for a ways until they reached a small hollow in the earth where the roots of a giant tree had once burrowed. The tree itself now lay full length in the loam behind them, the roots tangled through air instead of soil.

Thorongil gave his report briefly, "Several miles on the wood recedes northwards and we could see tents faintly in the moonlight, but we went no closer. There appear to be no sentries whatsoever; perhaps they are trusting too much that their presence here has gone unnoticed."

"Good," Kelegalen nodded. "We will wait until daylight, then."

The men made shift for themselves on the ground, Legolas taking the first watch. Thorongil turned as he settled himself and caught sight of his friend, perched on the trunk of the fallen tree above their heads. The elf was gazing towards the river again, his whole body as still as a statue cut from marble. His eyes seemed to be shining in the faint light from the stars, but he blinked and the glitter was gone. Frowning thoughtfully, Thorongil closed his eyes and slept.

/ (o) \ (o) / (o) \ (o) / (o) \ (o) / (o) \ (o) / (o) \

A crow cawed from deeper in the wood, and the sound startled Thorongil awake. It was early dawn and he shook dew from his cloak as he stood and looked about. Legolas and Nethtalt were already awake, speaking in low voices as they cleaned their bows a little further away. The only other was Thalion who was still on watch.

"How was the night?"

"Uneventful," the man replied, with an early morning cheerfulness that Thorongil had decided must be the natural attribute of fathers with energetic sons. Thalion nodded towards Legolas, "Your young friend gave me a bit of a scare: he was awake late. I passed him to get some water from my flask and thought for a moment he was dead — his eyes did not seem to see me — but when I exclaimed in surprise, he sat up and was perfectly fine; except that he wondered what was wrong."

"Aye," Thorongil said casually, avoiding laughter at the man's mistake by a narrow margin. "He has been known to do that, but there is nothing amiss with him." He did not say that the news was actually a relief to him; he had worried that Legolas might not be recovered enough to journey with them. It seemed all was well, but he would have to warn him of the dangers of sleeping normally.

"I'm glad to hear it," Thalion nodded agreeably. "He does not speak much and has a rather odd quality about him at times, but I have grown to like him already. He beat Gálmod in a shooting match the day before we left."

"Do you dislike Gálmod also?" Thorongil's eyebrow rose, glancing at the darker haired Rohirrim who was also now awake and seeing to his weapons, but out of earshot.

"He is the finest archer I had ever met before Legolas," Thalion admitted, "and an excellent horseman, but he is not the kindliest of men. In a cool, calculating fashion he understands both his own skill and the deficiencies of others, and when one has a talent for shrewd, yet openly critical speech… Shall I say that the results are sometimes poorly received by others?"

"Easily understood and quite diplomatic," Thorongil smiled.

"One develops whatever skills are necessary for a peaceful life," Thalion intoned humorously, stroking his short beard.

"And what might a harness maker need with diplomacy?"

"He means Rokhiell," Nethtalt said, grinning. "Thalion was injured when they were captured and Findel told me your wife was none too pleased at you leaving again so soon."

"And she claims that *I* worry too easily," Thalion sighed. "We have been married for twenty-five summers; we have survived harsh weather, poverty, illness, the loss of our daughters (we had twins before Aldor), and now the destruction of our home. You would imagine after so much experience, two people could begin to trust each other's abilities. Not so."

"Not unusual either," Legolas shrugged, glancing for a half second at Thorongil.

"Women," Gálmod proclaimed, "are Ilúvatar's greatest mysteries."

"And you would claim to know something of this?" Kelegalen asked lightly, but his eyes clouded just slightly; perhaps with memories of his own wife, long ago.

"I would," the archer said casually as he shouldered his quiver.

"Whoever this maiden is, I would assume you have not declared yourself, else your observation would seem strange," Thalion jested, lifting his light pack.

"Not yet, but she will not refuse, I am quite certain." Gálmod laughed in a low way that was meant to be self deprecating, "If nothing else, her alternative partner could only be aptly compared to suicide!"

There was something grating in his triumphant words, and the cheerful atmosphere seemed to evaporate with the dew. Kelegalen, for no seeming reason, rested his hand lightly on his son's shoulder.

"We ought to set out," Stavhold said quietly, his first words since they had crossed the Anduin the night before. "If we linger, we may yet be discovered."

"Aye," Kelegalen nodded. "Come men, we shall split from here. Thorongil shall take Legolas, Duurben, and Thalion and go straight south, and I shall take the others and angle southeast. Remember: caution."

The wood grew warmer as the sun rose above the trees, and Thorongil bundled his cloak into a tight roll and tied it on his back. They were walking towards the place he had visited the night before; where the forest ended and the encampment began. The captain gestured for the others to tread more silently, and they obeyed, though Thalion seemed unused to the forest. Duurben had taken up the role or rearguard and Legolas that of scout — for he moved in near silence over the discarded leaves

At last the wood thinned to a light scattering of trees, many of which had been chopped down for firewood. Beyond that…

Thorongil stared. In the dark he had not realized just how vast the encampment was. It stretched on alongside the river, farther than his human eye could see. There was a stunned silence. How could the Rohirrim possibly defeat so many?

Abruptly, at his side, Duurben frowned, "Captain, the tents…"

"There must be hundreds of them," Thalion agreed from Duurben's other side.

"No, I meant their arrangement. These are Southron tents, assuredly, but they are too far spread out, and no order has been used in their erection."

Thorongil frowned also, trying to focus on the layout of the camp rather than the size — and suddenly he understood. "This is not a military camp."

"How do you know?" Thalion asked in surprise.

"Duurben and I have seen Southron military camps before: the tents are arranged in rows so as to conserve space. As you can clearly see, these are not; only independent men would set up their dwellings like this."

"Independent families," Legolas corrected, his gray eyes tense and focused. "Most of humans moving down there are female, or else children. I only see a few men, and they wear no armor."

"You have good eyes," Thalion complimented him, "or else age is approaching me swiftly; I cannot see them."

"Why would King Harnwe have brought all his people with him?" Duurben queried, staring as the camp began to drift awake and smoke began to curl from campfires. "They must have encumbered his march badly, and yet clearly they are not here to fight."

"They must intend to make their home here," Legolas said logically, "or more specifically: in your homes."

"They shan't have ours," Thalion muttered quietly. "Not that they would want it; the roof has fallen in and it smells of smoke." There was a dull humor in his words.

"Whatever their intent, we will not make war on women and children. We have seen enough here; come, let us return along the wood's edge. If there is anything more to see, we will see it, but I rather think this journey has been worthless." Thorongil shifted backwards from behind their concealing bush.

"I could not say with honesty that I am disappointed," Duurben admitted.

/ (o) \ (o) / (o) \ (o) / (o) \ (o) / (o) \ (o) / (o) \

Thorongil's party had waited through the sunset and the twilight and slept fitfully. The night was beginning to wane when the snap of a twig finally proclaimed the return of Kelegalen and his men. Their faces were grim.

"What did you find?" Thalion asked, his eyes meeting those of his friend with concern. Kelegalen was looking old, and even with his gray hair, he did not often look so.

"Much," he sighed, and sank to the ground beside them. "We did not find what we expected in the way of *men*." Kelegalen's gaze drifted to Thorongil.

"Women and children only," came the prompt agreement.

"Aye. But farther east and we discovered they have been heavily at work." He paused. "They are making catapults — large enough to throw stones the size of horses. We counted twenty in all: crafted from trees chopped in these very woods."

Legolas' eyes closed; he understood, as did the others about him, how much of a disaster this was. King Thengel was almost completely dependant on his walls, no matter how weak they might be, and he had no means to assault and destroy such weapons in the battle field. Whereas with ten of these catapults per fort, it would be the height of simplicity for Harnwe to stand back and hurl Ladin and Medui to the ground — with the barest loss of life amongst his own troops. It was all too clear.

"So that is why they have not attacked again," Duurben murmured. "They have been building."

"Indeed," Kelegalen nodded heavily, "and there is no hope that we can bluff them into believing our strength lies elsewhere, for they have read the proof of it in our battle strategy. It seems, Duurben, that the message you redelivered carried more damaging information than we had supposed. It has bared our weak place."  


"What do you plan to do?" Legolas asked. 

"Nothing; at least, not yet. We have no way to unmake the machines or thwart their plans now. Come, the night will soon be gone."

/ (o) \ (o) / (o) \ (o) / (o) \ (o) / (o) \ (o) / (o) \

__

… I still was so afraid

Of the loneliness inside

That I'd run away and hide

What I was looking for was you

You helped me through

How could I know what it could do?

— _Artist Unknown_

/ (o) \ (o) / (o) \ (o) / (o) \ (o) / (o) \ (o) / (o) \

In the predawn hours, the Anduin rippled and flickered between gray and midnight in color. The men did not attempt silence as they had when landing, now that they knew what truly lived on the eastern side of the river.

"Normally we would haul the boats northwards by hand until we could be sure that the drag of the current wouldn't pull us too far south of our landing," Stavhold explained to Duurben as the two of them pulled their boat free of the reeds. "But because Kelegalen intends to spy out the enemy camp farther downstream, we will only need to carry these a little ways before we set out."

"That is good," Duurben agreed ruefully as they hefted the stout boat to their shoulders. The followed the rest and traveled a quarter mile north; then the boats were lowered into the current. 

In the east, a pale finger of dawn prodded the iron gray sky and Thorongil shoved off, third in the line of boats, and slipped in front Legolas while the elf kept the boat steady. They struck out, rowing with firm strokes; no sound reached them but the rush of the mighty river, and the *shllefff* of the paddles entering the water.

For a time no words were spoken between the two friends and the uncomfortable silence weighed on them both. Thorongil heard Legolas' paddling behind him, but the noise seemed distant. It was as though Legolas was avoiding him, even though it was impossible in such a small space. The elf had drawn himself into a silent corner of his own mind.

After a further quiet moment Thorongil spoke abruptly with a sigh, breaking the silence and causing Legolas to jump uncharacteristically, "Legolas, please tell me what troubles you."

"Troubles me?" Legolas questioned with forced perplexity, but did not look up at his friend. 

"Something has been pressing upon your heart since I found you and though you have closely guarded both word and thought, it shows," Thorongil replied. "You are recovered, yet still constantly in pain. I know you do not wish to tell me, but I cannot be silent, my friend. Nor should you be."

Thorongil's words were meant to leave no space for denial or argument, but still it seemed an eternity before the elf spoke quietly, "You have sight beyond your years, Estel." And then he continued, still more softly, "I did not reveal a full truth when I told you my story. I had not come alone as I said… I had a companion. Meldir. You may remember him."

Thorongil did not reply, anxious that his friend should not fall silent, and Legolas resumed; his voice breaking gently as the words seemed forced from him: flowing free like water too long held behind a dam. There was no struggle to remember the details; they were as fresh as newly drawn blood.

"He had come as my bodyguard and my companion. When we reached the Anduin, we stumbled upon the camp of Southrons and they cornered us against the river — we had no where to run, nothing to do but stand and defend ourselves as best we might. We didn't understand what they wanted, but we both knew it was a fight we had little hope of winning. Meldir saved my life…at the cost of his own." The last words were whispered so quietly they were nearly drowned out in the rush of the water. Still Thorongil spoke not, but though his friend did not see it, the captain closed his eyes at the words. Legolas pressed forward, his voice shaking almost out of his control, "They did not even give him a respectful burial. They did not care that they… they did not care." Legolas looked up suddenly and through his blurred vision he saw Thorongil looking back at him in agonized sorrow. 

As Legolas had feared, now that he had spoken, his memory again took hold of him. A thousand pictures moved across his vision -- sounds flashed through his mind -- and the pain welled up in his soul once more, threatening to stifle him. The prince dropped his gaze and closed his eyes slowly, his unshed tears falling at last from his eyes and sliding down his cheeks.

For a long moment, he was bound tightly -- alone in the dark with Meldir's blood still wet on his sleeve and the image of the elf's clouded gaze burned upon the inside of his closed eyelids. Then he felt a hand on his shoulder and looked up at the man across from him. It was day; Thorongil's eyes were brilliant against the light of early dawn and deep within them there was a powerful compassion. In his heart, the man was troubled; he would gladly give whatever assurance or understanding he could to cast out the shadows in his friend's heart, but now he feared there was nothing he could say. 

But it was enough. For a time, the simple presence of his friend held Legolas in a security he had not known in many long days. He was no longer alone in the boat.

At last Thorongil spoke, his words slipping into the elven tongue. "Legolas," he said softly, "I know that I can say nothing that will mend the hurt… I wish with all that is in me that I could. I grieve at the undeserved pain that has been dealt you; I grieve for the loss of Meldir. I do remember him; he was an honor to his kind and a valiant warrior, and though only briefly, he was my friend as well." 

Legolas nodded numbly, he knew that Thorongil was at a loss of what to say, but the words, spoken softly in his own tongue, eased the burden from his heart. 

"I shall miss him, Strider." Legolas spoke softly, his voice distant, spanning weary miles and countless years, but no longer strained. 

Thorongil nodded, "I know."

"I—I feel responsible," Legolas whispered, more to himself than his friend. "I was not wary or cautious when it could have saved his life; it was as much my responsibility to protect him as it was his to protect me."

"Legolas," Thorongil's voice became firm, but was still gentle, "you should not blame yourself for what cannot be changed and could not be prevented. It is through no fault of yours that Meldir fell defending his prince. It was a choice he made, Legolas, and he made it fully knowing the consequences of his actions."

"How can I believe that?" the question was stark and hollow.

"Do you believe he was your friend?"

"Yes," the elf whispered.

"Then how can you deny it?"

The elf sighed, but it was a broken sigh, with nothing held in. His eyes were still glassy, but when Thorongil caught their gaze, there were the beginnings of acceptance in the stormy gray.

"Thank you, Strider."

"You're—" Thorongil's reply was broken off by a faint shout of alarm and loud splash.

Turning in their seats, the others caught sight of Stavhold and Duurben's boat completely overturned in the water — its shiny wet underside glistening in the sun. Stavhold had apparently spent much time in boats, for he righted the vessel and slid back into his seat almost immediately, catching up his paddle and keeping the boat from yawing off course. Legolas relaxed almost before his body had a chance to tense and waited for Duurben to swim the short distance back to his boat… But though he was paddling, the current still pulled him further from Stavhold by the heartbeat, until he was nearly directly behind Thorongil and Legolas' boat. 

Abruptly from his side, Thorongil gave a short cry of remembrance, "He cannot swim!" The boat bucked suddenly as the captain plunged into the icy water, and Legolas fought to hold it, staring in shock first at the empty seat in front of him, and then over his shoulder. His friend's head broke the surface after a shallow dive and Thorongil swam quickly, fighting the current and easing towards the place where Duurben's head now broke the surface briefly, gasping.

Catching the floundering soldier under the arms and hauling his head above the water, Thorongil began swimming again, one handed. Stavhold's boat was too far upstream to reach, so Legolas maneuvered his boat closer instead. Shifting all the way to the right side of the boat, the elf leaned as far over as he could to balance the craft without risking the overturning it, and Thorongil's hand, blue at the knuckles, finally clutched the gunwales. Hoisting his exhausted lieutenant as high as he could, he pushed him halfway in, allowing Legolas to grab Duurben's arms and pull him in the rest of the way.

"Strider, here!" Legolas called, offering his hand as the boat pitched again, threatening to capsize.

"No," Thorongil gasped, his wet hair slapping his face as he shook his head, "too dangerous." With that, he released the side and struck out again. Legolas stared, wondering what in Middle Earth the human thought he was doing. A moment later, Thorongil began to push himself upstream and his intentions became clear. In response, Stavhold released some of his control and let his boat drift further downstream towards the struggling swimmer.

Thorongil again grabbed at the gunwales, just catching himself with his left hand when his right slipped, and Stavhold braced the boat and pulled him in.

"Are you hurt?" the man asked quickly, his own face wet and his eye patch drizzling a small stream of water down his cheek.

Thorongil shook his head once. "And you?" he asked.

Stavhold gave a humorless, but rare half smile, "Cold."

With the added weight of Duurben, who was temporarily too exhausted to paddle, Legolas' boat was beginning to turn. Putting all his strength behind his paddling, the elf forced the boat straight again and held it, feeling the paddle tremble in his hands; he had recovered from his imprisonment, but the fight to hold the boat on his own was tiring him. His hair, soaked with rapidly chilling sweat, clung to his forehead and darkened his head band.

"Here," Duurben said, pushing his own dripping hair back and lifting Thorongil's abandoned paddle, "I'll not be merely an extra burden."

Legolas smiled slightly at the man's dogged expression. He did not say anything, but a moment later the soldier explained with a sort of gruff dejection,

"The largest body of water near my home in my youth was only a few feet in depth. Some skills must be learned early, or not at all."

"Not necessarily," Legolas demurred. "Determination will carry you far, Duurben; you limit yourself sadly."

"It is only that I seem to always be finding myself laid up when I am needed." Duurben shrugged, looking fixedly ahead, then added shortly, "Swimming has not been necessary until very recently; I rather doubt it will be needful again."

"I was not speaking of swimming," Legolas retorted.

They rowed in silence until they reached the other side and Nethtalt pulled their boat in. Legolas draped his cloak about Duurben's shoulders, ignoring the protest, and sat on a nearby stone, resting his hands on his knees until they stopped shaking and his breath became even. A moment later Thorongil was standing beside him, steam rising faintly from his dripping clothing as the sun finally cleared the hills and sparse trees about them.

"You know, of course, that you look like a drowned rat, Thorongil," the elf said mildly.

"Thank you, Legolas," the captain returned in a contrastingly dry tone, wringing the water from his tunic and hair as Stavhold and Duurben did the same. "That is precisely what I needed to hear."

"I apologize, I did not mean to—" Duurben began, but Stavhold waved him down and Thorongil advised, 

"Do not begin and I will not have to cut you off. It was no fault of yours, and therefore you may have none of the blame." He half smiled, "Perhaps everyone should follow our example before we press on, for I have heard that cold water is good for alertness."

Duurben shrugged noncommittally, "I have heard that said of death threats as well; perhaps we ought to take everyone hostage."

Thorongil stared. "Duurben, was that a jest?"

The lieutenant blinked, his forehead creasing in a worried frown, "I did not intend to be taken seriously, no sir."

Legolas smiled silently at Thorongil's thunderstruck expression.

"The Valar should be more careful about dropping miracles in on the heads of unsuspecting men," Thorongil stated firmly, shaking his head amazement.

Kelegalen handed his own cloak to Thorongil, "We are to the north of the enemy yet, but we must be cautious; we cannot risk the loss of our knowledge of the enemy's plans."

"Father!" the call came from just over the low rise behind them. They made their way between the few trees and found Nethtalt crouched over a brown trail, threading just beside one of the rock faces that sprang out of the land here and there at this point in the land. His fingers brushed it lightly, looking up the trail as it went north, and then down to where it traveled toward the Southron camp.

"What could they need such a path for?" Thorongil murmured, stepping closer and gazing down at it. 

Gálmod suggested, "Perhaps they have more troops there?"

"Nay, this trail is only wide enough for one man; and it appears that only two or three use it." Thorongil shook his head, widening his examination of the ground. "More likely it is a scouting outpost, or a livestock pen. Yet the Southrons are not known for keeping horses."

Legolas' eyes narrowed suddenly, "Something is—"

A long blast like a horrible trumpet shattered the morning like a sheet of glass, deafening them. The men stumbled back, covering their ears as the ground rumbled beneath them faintly, and at the rise above their heads there charged into view a huge, gray form.

Duurben stumbled back, the terror of recognition clear in on his face. 

"_Mûmak_!"

****

TBC…


	18. Oliphaunt Am I

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The Return of the Sarah!! *cue ominous music*

EVERYONE: Map time again! There's a new Thorongil map in Siri's bio that should help with understanding where they went on their little spying trip and where they are now. :)

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Anarril: Yep, Thorongil's rubbing off on him! And you're right: it happens to the best of us! Would you believe it? I was the most normal of children for two years straight… and then along came Hannah. :P Two years later, Chloe showed up. :O Things sort of spiraled out of control from there… ;) Galmod's love is a rather subtle thing, but you're right: any girl in her right mind would run for cover (I'll give you a hint: you know the girl he's talking about). As for the elven sleeping habits thing: we couldn't resist, I'm afraid. Fortunately: Thalion may be observant, but he's not very well informed on elves as a species. ;D

Gwyn: Positively giddy at the possibility of… _another cliff hanger??_ *rubs finger in ear* Maybe I misheard. Or maybe you were being sarcastic. Anywho, thanks! :D

None: Absolutely not! Thorongil and Legolas would stab themselves with a rusty screwdriver before they let anything happen to anyone they're trying to protect. *turns green* Yeah, or something like that… Thank you so much!!

sabercrazy: Who's been watching too much Aladdin? ;D Don't worry! Much. And yes, the drowned rat look is currently chic in Middle Earth, or so says Bree Beat Magazine. ;)

Elwen: *bows* Thank you! :)

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Enigma Jade: Thanks! And now, in keeping with the villainous laughter: a new post! ;)

Lina: Yikes, girl, you sure know how to take the drama out of a scene! :P And dearie me, I thought for sure you were over the Meldir thing by now -- *is soaked instantly by Lina's deluge of tears; fumbles around after the fact for an umbrella* Sorry, sorry! Really, we didn't want to upset you! Well, not *that* much anyway. :) Glad you approve of Duurben's spark of humor! *Duurben doesn't seem to know what to do about the 'high five' and shakes Lina's hand* He's really glad to have fans; _really!_ :D 

Eomer: Oh my yes, get her out of here quick!! Knowing Lina, she'll probably try to protect her 'baby' and wind up getting squished herself. :O ;D

w: Once again, you have gotten our day off to the perfect start! Even though, yes, we do have to get up at 6. Honestly, it's not *that* bad, since we don't have to do school on Fridays because of it, but we're just not morning people: a porcupine with a hang-over often couldn't rival my morning mood! ;) Sorry if we confused you a bit with the conversation there: we were trying to keep it from taking too long, but I guess we cut some of the wrong corners… :P Glad you liked it anyway! That sort of thing so often never gets a chance to show up in a story because of the need to jump from one active portion to the next -- in spite of the occasional necessity of making negative characters more negative. ;) Even more than this: I'm glad you liked Duurben so much!! His joke (like so many other aspects of his personality) just suddenly popped out one day. I suppose it was to be expected after all the time he spent with Thorongil… ;) Thank you also on the boat conversation! Hannah did a lot of hard work on that, and as for their positions, you had it correct: Thorongil was sitting in front of Legolas. The idea was supposed to be that he half turned in his seat to face his friend a few times in the conversation, but that was a little confusing: partly because it's hard to imagine how he might do that and continue paddling, and partly because while Hannah did the conversation, I did all the stuff before and after it -- same old 'keeping the flow right' problem (and no pun intended whatsoever!) ;D Last of all: a big hug on our grammar! We don't often hear about it unless we get something wrong, so that was wonderful news! :D

Okay, confession: this is, I believe, the shortest chapter we have ever written for a fanfic! We're sorry that it turned out that way; it had mostly to do with working out the other chapters on either side of this one, and you'll be happy to know that the chapter after this is rather longer than normal. *smiles cheerily* Please check all torches, bows and arrows, swords, lightsabers, and other such possibly writer-damaging items at the thread door and we'll try not to be late with the next post! :}

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Thorongil

By Sarah and Hannah (Siri)

(disclaimers, explanations, and summaries 

available at the top of chapter 1)

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MAP: _See Siri's bio_

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Chapter 18

Oliphaunt Am I

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Oliphaunt am I,

Biggest of all,

Huge, old, and tall.

If ever you met me

You wouldn't forget me.

If you never do,

You won't think I'm true;

But old Oliphaunt am I,

And I never lie.

- old Shire rhyme

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Legs rose above them, as thick as tree trunks. Four long tusks stood out, two above its mouth and two protruding from its lower jaw. Dark gray skin sagged on its massive frame. Its steps shook the ground as it reared and plunged. Its trunk rose in a wild, screaming trumpet — its mouth frothed — and its eyes were red with madness.

Hands reached for weapons automatically, but on a beast so huge, how could such small swords and arrows make an impression? Thalion saw that he could walk between the beast's legs easily, without the slightest need to stoop. And its upper tusks and trunk were longer than a horse. The mûmak stamped again and charged over the low crag and in amongst them, causing them to scatter out of its path. Legolas just leapt aside in time to miss the wildly swaying lower tusks as the beast head lolled from side to side.

Kelegalen brought up his sword and slashed at the nearest leg, but the blow, though heavy, drew no blood. Thorongil heaved Nethtalt with him into the underbrush as the creature nearly trampled them, and then he leapt up again, watching as the animal realized its prey had been missed and wheeled about to charge a second time.

Gálmod hauled free his bow and fired off an arrow, but it struck the monstrous thing's side and ricocheted off. The hide was simply too thick. On the creature's back it carried a partially smashed platform, such as would carry a dozen men or more, but there was nobody on it and its scarlet canopy drifted in tattered shreds. Around the mûmak's back legs were two band of iron, with pieces of broken chain still dangling from them.

Legolas also fired an arrow, but it fared the same as Gálmod's, and he turned quickly to Duurben, "How do you injure them?"

"It is too strong," Duurben said, his face still partly frozen from the shock of the creature's arrival.

Legolas tried not to be impatient, "Duurben, you told me Thorongil's men killed three of them: how did they do it?"

The lieutenant righted himself and drew his own bow readily, but his answer was unhelpful, "He never said."

The elf's gaze darted madly through the undergrowth, trying to determine where his friend had gone. A distance to his left, Thalion was dashing out of the mûmak's path as it ran for him, and Legolas fired again, with little hope. The arrow sprang away.

Thorongil stepped into the open, drawing his own bow and aiming high, hoping to distract the beast from the fleeing Rohirrim. The shaft flew straight, but the beast moved, and it stuck in the softer folds of skin below the eye. The mûmak reared, its front feet lifting from the ground, twice the height of a man, and plunging back to earth again, causing the trees to tremble and Thorongil to stumble slightly. And then the beast's head came down, shaking violently from side to side, as if to rid itself of a stinging insect. Thorongil heard Nethtalt cry out a warning, looked up, and caught the end of the long upper tusk in his chest, flying backwards with the blow to land hard upon the ground.

The younger man pulled him further away from the angered beast, sighing with relief as Thorongil tried to right himself almost immediately, gasping.

"No, Thorongil," Nethtalt held him down, "not too fast."

"The — the eyes," the captain gasped, his bruised chest heaving, "they must — must aim for — eyes!"

"Of course," Nethtalt nodded, rising quickly, "I will tell them."

Gálmod's fourth arrow did no better than his previous attempts and he cursed as it nearly hit him after bouncing off. The beast was making noises like thunder and lightening confined in one massive form, but he just managed to hear a voice yelling above it, faintly.

"The eyes! The eyes!"

Swinging his bow up, he fired at the small, flickering red place that was the beast's eyes. It was too small and too fast a target to hit from his distance, but the arrow caught the mûmak above its trunk and finally stayed there. Two more arrows followed from Legolas and Duurben's position, and also found a mark: one to the side of the left eye, and the other below the creature's jowls.

Thalion, freed from the creature's attention, scrambled to the top of the rock face that the beast and charged over and hurled his knife forwards. It nicked the upper tusk and skipped sideways, lodging in the mûmak's lower jaw up to its hilt. The beast's lashing trunk swung out like a whip as it turned, and Thalion ducked once under it, and then was pulled off the rock face by it, falling suddenly straight down. His frantically grasping arms caught a fist full of grass growing from the crevices in the stone, slowing his descent, but then the creature moved sideways, threatening to crush him to the rock with its back leg, and he released his hold, trying to relax at the impact, and rolling aside as the animal's foot flattened the place where he had landed. He lay huddled against the rock, too winded to rise.

Stavhold drove his spear into the back of the creature's knee joint and blood trickled over the handle, causing him to lose his grip and back hastily away when the mûmak's leg jerked backwards, nearly into his face.

Again and again Nethtalt fired, but as the creature became more frenzied, it became more and more difficult both to avoid it and to hit it. Behind him Thorongil had recovered enough to use his bow also. The monster's face had taken on the appearance of being stuck full of pins, but still all the shafts did was anger it.

At last, after stamping about in one place, the mûmak charged suddenly and directly towards the two men. Thorongil let off a final arrow, then followed Nethtalt and fled — knowing to face the monster as it charged would be foolhardy. Yet ever the beast came on, snorting and gaining as they ran, getting further and further from their companions.

Their only warning was the change in the level of the trees. Abruptly, the ground dropped off again, crumbling away into a massive pile of rock and brown grasses. They spun back before going over it, but already the mûmak was upon them, tusks waving and catching up both earth, rocks and trees as they swung. Thorongil and Nethtalt dove to either side as a large stone came flying towards them at head height, hit the ground behind them, and tumbled over the slope to smash on the other rocks below.

Nethtalt had only just scrambled his knees before a tree, half dead and dragged out by its shriveling roots, crashed in upon him.

"Nethtalt!" Thorongil cried, as the young man fell, pinned under the rotting trunk. Nethtalt was only half conscious, his green eyes staring dully from between half closed lids, and he was incapable of defending himself, pinioned as he was. The mûmak bellowed again, echoing off the hills, and Thorongil stood before the tree, his arrows at hand. It was a bad corner from which to defend himself, but he could not flee and leave Nethtalt unprotected. The beast came on, and the first arrow stuck through its ear. Its monstrous head hung low and its tusk jutted forwards, prepared to gore its prey directly through the chest. And at last its eye was close enough.

The second arrow struck directly in the left eye, turning slightly on an angle and missing the brain, but blinding the mûmak on one side and sending blood coursing down the gray leather of its face. The monster ground to a halt, screaming in pain, and jerking its head sideways. Thorongil could not back up with the tree behind him, and the oncoming tusk once more caught him in a heavy blow that knocked him straight to the side.

Thorongil let out a startled cry as he was sent hurtling over the drop, striking the rocky incline, and rolling heavily and painfully down. With a last numbing crack he reached the bottom and lay amongst the stones, wondering that he was still conscious. The morning sky spun above him. 

Hearing the animal retreating from the ground above, Thorongil staggered up, bleeding from several scrapes and feeling his head pound. He knew he needed to retrieve Nethtalt and return to help the others, for the beast was not slain yet, but dizziness overcame him and he was forced to stand still a moment, just breathing.

So absorbed was he in this, he did not hear the footsteps until they were directly behind him. Whirling about he brought up his sword, but was caught in the stomach by the butt of a spear. The air left him and he doubled over slightly, his body protesting. In response his attacker struck him again and he collapsed. His fingers knotted in the grass as he lay there, fighting for air. Then, with a final blow over the head, he was at last rendered unconscious. Catching up his limp arms, the enemy took him and headed back the way they had come, satisfied at their accomplishment. 

As he had seen when he turned: they were Southron scouts.

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TBC…


	19. I make the earth shake…

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Sarah: responder extraordinaire! :P

Larus: Hey there! It really is okay if you can't post very often: we totally understand life's habit of intruding! ;) Thank you ever so much for the long review, though, it was fantastic!! :D Now let me see if I can answer your questions… No, we don't generally do much specific research for our character torture, but our dad is a doctor, so out of respect for his profession we try to avoid an really serious bloopers in the injury/recovery arena. A lot of the info we use on basic cuts/fractures are taken from some of the cases he's told us about, but no (if you were about to ask) he's never had anyone come in with an arrow wound. ;P Legolas didn't hide his identity from the Haradrim (the bad guys), but yeah, he did hide from the Rohirrim (the good guys) and that was because of a mild case of superstition that many of the Rohirrim had in those days -- chiefly because they lived relatively close to the great sorceress of the Golden Wood. Poor Galadriel; she didn't deserve the reputation she got! ;) Yeah, Duurben's a little too serious for his own good; poor Legolas. :P Thumbs up on you summary of Thorongil's authority difficulties! That's pretty much what we were thinking. :) It's been ten years since Thorongil set out on his errantries, yes, but we attempted to keep things vague about when the two friends last met so that (honestly) if we wanted to write another fic during this time period, we could do so! ;D Thank you so much on the angst bits especially! Sometimes tears are the sincerest form of flattery. ;) LOL!! We'd actually forgotten about that part in the DVD, but you're right: it was almost just like it! Except that Duurben isn't short… ;P *hugs Larus* Come back when you can; we look forward to seeing you! :) 

Elemmire: Thanx! :)

Mouse: *nonplussed for a minute* It's a good thing? Oh, good; you had me worried there. ;) Now, back to clobbering…

None: No problem! Review when you can, and we'll *try* not to kill you. We can't make any promises, of course, but we'll do our best. ;)

Lina: *leaps sky high* WHAT?? What did we do?! Oh. *That* IS a poem by Tolkien, supposedly written by some hobbit or other, and recited by Sam in The Two Towers -- we were trying for a bit of humorous irony. *covers eyes with hand* Lina, it's MEANT to look ugly! If it looked cute, you'd be chewing on our ankles and demanding that we stop hurting it! ;D And no, the world isn't coming to an end. Yet. And no, we aren't killing Thorongil. Ye-- *catches Lina's glare* I mean, uh, EVER! :D

Eomer: Sometimes we can't tell who's more at risk in our stories when Lina comes to give feedback… The villains (in danger of being strangled to death), the heroes (in danger of being hugged to death), us (in danger of being pummeled or praised to death), or Lina (in danger of… death: by many and various means). ;D

RainyDayz: Cool song! Looks like great song fic material. :D And we're so glad you're liking it! In particular the struck in the chest part. *grins big* Hey, we love details! Especially odd ones. ;)

Elwen: Yes, he's very trustworthy that way; makes fic writing pretty easy! ;D And no, we don't have an Estel clone, but I'm not sure what we'd do with one, so maybe you'd better just keep him to decapitate next time Thorongil does something stupid. :P

saber crazy: I dunno, that says a lot, really! :P Yeah, if Thorongil's got an arrow magnet in his shoulder, he's got an even bigger one that seems to draw capture-happy villains. ;) And yeah, I'm the oldest of nine, so if it's Disney I've probably seen it! Beauty and the Beast is actually my favorite cartoon, but Aladdin is a pretty close second; Robin Williams is such a hoot. :D

Staran: *bows* Thanks! And Thorongil? Alright? Uh… I mean: Oh yes, of course he'll be alright! *giant smile* :D

Mercredi: The elves vs. men thing has always interested me too; especially after reading the Silmarillion! You don't have to get very far beyond Feanor and the kin slaying before Elrond's 'men are weak' line from the movie begins to take on distinctly laughable qualities. :P On the flip side, men DO seem to have a great many more problems with each other in recent history, and generally manage a significantly greater amount of damage in a far shorter period of time. *mumblemumble ISILDUR mumblemumble* *sigh* ;) Thank you so much on our character development and battle planning!! We enjoy positioning the pieces, but fear to bore our readers by straying too far from the actual game (if that makes sense)… Glad you're enjoying it! :D The thing with SoH is actually kind of funny: we were literally mere *days* away from posting our first chapter when Cassia's teaser pages from SoH appeared at the end of Priceless Treasure! We had had absolutely NO idea she and Sio were writing a Southron/oliphaunt fic until that moment. Needless to say: there was a solid minute of panic before we calmed down. As you can see, we decided to post anyway, in spite of superior materials being presented elsewhere, and fortunately (in spite of our worries) our fics haven't managed to seriously clash so far -- even if Aragorn *would* have likely had an easier time with the oliphaunts, had we read SoH beforehand… ;) And speaking of oliphaunts and their short chapters: here's some more! :D

Gwyn: *sighs with relief* Oh good, I'm glad you're okay with them! Reader mobs and feedback are like dragons and treasure: if we can't have the latter without the former, then so be it, but we're really rather not wind up in flames… :P

Anarril: Yeppers, ouchies ahead! *rings warning bell* Galmod *thinks* his love is Findel. As for what she thinks… *remains pleasantly silent* ;) You do begin to wonder why the villains don't clue in and duct tape Dixie cups over their war beasts eyes, or whatnot, don't you? In this case, though, Tolkien actually thought of the idea before we did (in The Return of the King), so we can't actually claim full credit for the oliphaunt damage. *recalls too late that Anarril *likes* oliphaunts* Uh, as a matter of fact, we'd rather not claim *any* of the credit! And no, you *don't* know where we live, or where we post from, or even where we evacuate to when the readers become too blood-thirsty! *sighs in relief* ;) 

Cassia: ROTFLOL!!! High-five, torture-lover! I don't think I've ever seen anyone go for full blown cheering like that -- though you really wonder why it hasn't happened sooner. Everyone knows we approve, even when we try to protest! ;P It's true: Aragorn by now ought to have a healthy fear of cliffs, arrows, orcs, wolves, wargs, taergs, spiders, nazgul, swords, trees, rivers, taverns, knives, poisons, floods, mines, trolls, oliphaunts, brushfires, bounty hunters, carnivorous plants, deranged elves, mountains, plains, other people's uncles, and (like his friend) caves -- fortunately for us, he's suicidal by nature, or else he wouldn't ever leave his bedroom! :D Thanks on our battle!! Our insecurities aren't as bad as they were before tackling D or D, but they still nag at us right when we need to reel off a fight. ;) As for ouchies: it depends on the ouchy! Generally Hannah winds up (due to amazing skill and inclination) with the REAL torture stuff -- she did Aragorn's forced encounter with the orcs in Gundabad. Then I usually do the milder injuries -- such as Legolas' molten metal accident in Gundabad -- and the really crowded battle scenes (armies clashing sort of thing). We don't always split off that way (in particular Hannah has done a good deal of minor injury and army clashing stuff), but that's usually the way it falls out. :D Thank you so much, and hope you have a good time in Florida in spite of the sun! We'll miss ya! :)

Hiro-tyre: *blushes the color of boiled lobster* Wow. Gosh, I really don't know whether to hug you and thank you for such encouraging feedback -- or to hide! *glances at Hiro-tyre's sword nervously* Believe me, we'll do our absolute best not to disappoint -- just please remember that whatever accidentally brilliant moments we may produce (and believe me: we frequently have more luck than talent…), we'll never be Tolkien! *decides she's insured herself and her sister as much as she can against possible future slaying for character defamation and goes for the hug* Thank you so much! You really made us feel great, and yes, our egos had a brief moment of rubbing against the ceiling. Who could avoid it with such a review? ;P As for our OCs: praise for them is the stuff we usually appreciate most. We can always say to ourselves, 'Yeah, but soandso does better Legolas than we do!' (in particular: Tolkien, Peter Jackson, and Cassia/Sio), but we can't ever do that with Thalion, or even Galmod (though I personally don't care for him ;P): they're altogether ours! The only trick is to create them decently without taking up too much of the story with them… ;D Glad you liked our fighting and our emotion -- clichés always will rear their ugly heads, but we're happy that the final result was enjoyable! I agree with you on the guilt factor; it's very true. :) Last of all: thanks on the Legolas/Aragorn relationship! We really don't know what else to say beyond that, but we are thrilled it's turning out as it should (i.e. NON SLASH and PLATONIC). An especial (if bemused) thank you on our fourteen words! :D

w: *grins until the ends of her mouth meet her ears* Golly galoshes, really? Thanks!! Next to character compliments, action compliments are some of the very best an author can get -- and in our case that is especially true! Seems no matter how long either of us write such stuff, we always start into fight scenes with a sense of oh-my-I-hope-I-don't-botch-this nervousness. I'm particularly that way, since Hannah's had more fanfic writing experience (she's probably written over thirty Star Wars fanfics all told). I'm glad the description of the oliphaunt went over so well! The whole time I was writing that bit, I had an over-sized photo of the oliphaunts charging in Ithilien (in TTT) up on my desktop to refer back to. ;) The thing about Thorongil and how he killed the mûmak didn't actually come through the way we wanted, I'm afraid… Duurben's answer of "He never said" was supposed to be accusing (i.e. that Thorongil, because of too many bad memories and too much modesty never told him the specifics). In the end, though, knowing how much you like Duurben was worth messing it up! We *never* but NEVER expected him to garner so much approval, but oh, we couldn't be more pleased. *huge smile* :D Glad our injuries hit the right mark, and our death for the oliphaunt came off right as well -- once again: nervous, nervous. And yes, the poem is Tolkien's! Sam recites it for Frodo in The Two Towers when they see an oliphaunt outside the Black Gate of Mordor. Between the last chapter and this one, I think we quote almost the whole thing (though we may have omitted a few pieces and I'm just forgetting). Anyway, we liked it too, and felt it added a touch of humor to an otherwise not-so-humorous situation. If only those hobbits knew! :D

*to herself* Heaven's above, I'd better shut up now! *to the readers* Okay, everyone off the cliff! ;)

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Thorongil

By Sarah and Hannah (Siri)

(disclaimers, explanations, and summaries 

available at the top of chapter 1)

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Chapter 19

'I make the earth shake…'

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I make the earth shake,

As I tramp through the grass;

Trees crack as I pass.

With horns in my mouth

I walk in the South,

Flapping big ears.

Beyond count of years.

— _Old Shire rhyme_

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The remainder of Kelegalen's group had barely had enough time to pull Thalion from the foot of the rock face and regroup before the creature was back amongst them and they were once more fighting for their lives. Legolas just managed to recognize Thorongil's arrow protruding from one of the mûmak's eyes, but could see no other evidence of his friends' whereabouts.

"We cannot hit its eyes when it is so high up and moving so quickly," Gálmod protested, running his sleeve across his sweaty face, leaving a trail of grime mixed with red. The mûmak did not seem to have caught their scent yet.

Legolas casted about for a solution. Kelegalen had been caught over the head by a falling maple, leaving a heavily bleeding gash in his graying hair that was now trickling blood into his eyes. Duurben was badly bruised from leaping from the creature's path into the side of a tree and he was favoring his right leg. Gálmod had blood on his hands from somewhere. Legolas and Stavhold were the only ones still unhurt; yet Stavhold was covered in the mûmak's blood, and grime had clung to his wet clothing.

The beast was nearly upon them when at last Legolas remembered the platform.

"You're right, Gálmod, I must get closer. Can you distract it?"

They all seemed to follow his thoughts instantly.

"No one could get up there," Gálmod declared flatly.

But at the same time Kelegalen said, "Yes."

"Go at it from the left," Stavhold advised, already breaking from cover to attack. "It won't be able to see a thing on its blind side!"

The parted again. Duurben gave Gálmod a bewildered look in exchange for the Rohirrim's frustrated one, and they both dropped to one knee in the bushes, firing as rapidly as they could with their depleted arrows. Kelegalen and Stavhold ran dangerously about its feet, alternately luring it and driving it towards rock face, slashing at its feet with spear and sword.

Legolas forged up the hill, springing lightly over fallen trees and loose stones. What he was about to attempt would be impossible for a man, but hopefully not an elf. He reached the edge of the rise and looked up at the platform, now rumbling only a few feet above his head. Fastening his bow over his shoulder, he leapt, catching at the splintering beams and pulling himself up as the mûmak bucked beneath him. Staggering as on a ship's deck in a storm, he stumbled across towards the animal's head, only his quick balance keeping him from being pitched to his death.

Below, Stavhold ducked low under the trunk, flattening himself to the earth as it swung by — only to become pinned as the animal drove its lower tusks into the ground on either side of his body. The mûmak bellowed, nearly shattering his senses, and for a moment he was faced with its huge mouth. Pulling his sword free, he drove the weapon upwards almost without thought, sinking it by half its length into the roof of the mûmak's mouth, almost not daring to hope the monster would feel it. It did.

Wrenching its tusks free of the ground and showering the prostrate man with soil, it jerked away, opening and closing its mouth in a vain attempt to rid itself of the piece of steel. On its back, Legolas was flung headlong across the platform, catching the railing and swinging himself back on even as he was pitched off; then bracing his shoulder against it as the world around him shook and tilted. The tops of tall trees blurred as the mûmak shook and charged in a wild zigzag, their leaves brushing against the elf's hands as he clung on and tried once more to edge towards the animal's head.

At last he reached the edge of the platform and for a moment paused, focusing on his next move and knowing he mustn't slip.

"Hold!" Duurben shouted, catching Gálmod's elbow. They could not risk shooting their comrade.

"This is madness; he cannot hope to make that leap safely!" Gálmod spluttered, and behind him Thalion's hands clenched.

The elf jumped. For half a second he feared the creature might jerk out from under him. And then he landed lightly on the beast's head and sank into tight crouch, his bow once more in his hand. Taking three short steps forward, until he was standing on the mûmak's forehead, he aimed two arrows at once downward and fired.

Only two feet away, his shots could not help but penetrate all the way up to their green feathers.

The mûmak's cries until then had been of anger and madness. Now there came a last gasping cry of anguish as the animal stumbled back, seeming to get its own legs tangled as it moved. On the ground, Kelegalen and Stavhold ran for the trees, motioning for everyone to get further back. Screaming trumpets echoed across the Anduin for miles, fading out into silence as they became deadened by the trees.

Legolas ran to the beast's ear and made a desperate leap. And the monster fell. Knocking against the rock face, it lost its balance and crashed to the ground, sending several trees falling to the earth, and smashing its skull on a jagged mass of stone behind it.

The dust drifted in the air, and the silence seemed to deafen them. Moving quickly forwards, Kelegalen stared in dismay at the fallen mûmak… Legolas had leapt the same direction as it had fallen! For a moment he simply stared and the others dashed through the underbrush to join him, taking in the bleeding face of the blinded creature, and its massive bulk as it lay prostrate on the ground. 

At last, the elder man cried out in disbelief, "Legolas?!"

"Yes?"

The men whirled about, startled to hear the response coming from above their heads. And with barely a sound, the elf dropped from the branches of a lofty oak; a tree at least three quarters of the height of the mûmak, and with very sturdy upper branches.

"Thank Ilúvatar," the man breathed. "We had thought you dead!"

Legolas smiled, but the expression faltered uncertainly as he saw the faces of several of his companions. Stavhold was looking relieved as well, but Duurben, Thalion and especially Gálmod had expressions of utter shock on their faces, almost akin to fascinated horror.

Kelegalen glanced at his men, and then closer at Legolas, and his face became unutterably tired; as if he saw a rift in a path and did not look forward to crossing it. And then Legolas realized: his headband was gone. When he had lost it, he could not recall, but it had certainly vanished; revealing clearly to all present the delicate points on his ears.

"I knew it," Gálmod hissed, drawing back as if confronted by a snake.

Duurben seemed mostly confused, "You're not — not Rohirrim?"

"Of course it's not," Gálmod's tone was almost shrill. "It's not even human!"

"Gálmod!" Stavhold rebuked, his forehead creasing in a frown even as he sagged wearily against the huge carcass's side.

"You need to understand," Kelegalen began, but Gálmod backed away even further, shaking his head as if he were being confronted with the greatest lunacy ever heard.

Thalion put his hand to his head as if dizzy, wincing as his fingers brushed a knot on his forehead. He, like Findel, was having difficulty trying to sort out the fiction of superstitious legends from the facts of what he knew about Legolas. In the end, it was he who regained himself first.

"I thought there was something different about you," he murmured; then added, "Little wonder you're such a good archer; I had heard that about the elves." He smiled faintly and everyone else shifted. It was the first time the word 'elf' had been spoken, and the tension both tightened and eased at the same moment. Duurben brought his hand up in a silent salute. He had not been raised with frightening stories of an elven sorceress and acceptance on that score came easier to him.

Legolas nodded gratefully to them both. He had felt for a moment that he was in a spotlight of uncertainty. Though Kelegalen and Stavhold knew him and had accepted him from the first, it was somehow important that the others did the same. //This must be what Estel once felt,// he thought fleetingly.

"Gálmod?" he questioned softly. "I may not be human, but neither am I a monster."

The dark haired Rohirrim had stopped backing, but the elf could see barely concealed terror behind the man's eyes. As brave as Gálmod could be in battle, at his core was a hidden fear of the unknown — be it creature, or circumstance, or death — and it was twisting almost visibly on his face. Besides that was his jealousy, spawned when he and the elf had first met.

The silence dragged on, and it began to appear that they might stand there until the sun set, but Kelegalen made the decision for them, "Gálmod, you do not have to like him personally, but you must accept him for now. My son and Thorongil have still not returned and we must search for them before the Southrons come to inspect the noises they have most certainly been hearing. We must be miles away, if possible, before the noon time is over."

Legolas acquiesced quickly and the confrontation was abandoned. Thalion walked beside him as they set off quickly through the trees, following the short trail the mûmak had taken when it pursued the two men. "So Kelegalen and Stavhold knew?" he asked almost conversationally.

The elf nodded, pulling his hair behind his ears and braiding it loosely out of his way. "We had met twelve years ago, when Nethtalt was a boy. When I was rescued from the Southron camp Thorongil felt it would be safer for me to pass myself off as a man to avoid trouble."

Thalion nodded in understanding, then realized, "So Findel knows as well?"

Another nod, this time a little hesitant, as if the elf was unsure how the girl's uncle would take the news of her withheld information.

Thalion laughed aloud, shaking his head in a sort of pleased pride and running his fingers through his dirty beard, "That girl! She'd befriend a warg, if it paused to listen to her."

"Considering my appearance at the time, the comparison is apt," Legolas retorted dryly.

They came to the edge of another drop off, its slope covered in stones like a frozen avalanche. There appeared to be no one there and for a moment the men were confused as they looked about. Duurben stepped onto a dead tree to gain a better vantage point, and then quickly jumped down with a cry of alarm.

"Nethtalt?" Kelegalen was by his son's side in an instant, his face horribly gray as he took in the young man's pallor and tried anxiously to ascertain the young man's injuries. He was still pinned half way under the tree and his head and side were badly bruised. As his father's browned hands felt his chest, searching for broken bones, Nethtalt blinked slowly.

"Father?"

"Stay still, my son, your ribs are fine, but I don't know about your legs," the older man's tone was deceptively calm as he worked.

Nethtalt moved his head in difficult denial, "There's a — a dip in the ground — just here. I — think they're fine."

Legolas rocked the log back experimentally and nodded to Stavhold who grasped the other side. Thalion pushed on the front and Gálmod and Kelegalen took the Nethtalt under the shoulders and pulled him gently free. He pushed himself doggedly up, ignoring his father's protests, and sat propped against the roots of the tree, concentrating on breathing. 

At last he asked, "The mûmak?"

"Dead," Legolas reported, then asked what everyone had been wondering since they found the young man, "Where is Thorongil?"

Nethtalt's face fell, as if he had just recalled a half forgotten memory, "He… he stayed to keep the mûmak away from me and… he… he went over the edge. There was nothing I could do." He looked up, his eyes heavy with remorse, and searched out Legolas' face, but the elf was no longer there. He and Duurben were both gone. Kelegalen looked over the edge and saw them wending their way down the steep incline, Legolas examining the ground as they went.

Legolas winced at the blood smeared on the stones, drying quickly in the sunlight, but his heart was a little lighter. Thorongil may have fallen over the edge, but he had not remained there; he had still been able to walk. //But where has he gone?//

Duurben pointed suddenly at the ground a few feet away. There lay the imprints of foreign boots — foreign, but familiar. And a light tracing of blood on the grass showed that Thorongil had been dragged away. The Gondorian soldier gave a despairing half cry, but Legolas was silent. While it was true that *he* had been taken and forgotten, he had no illusions that the same disinterest would be granted his friend.

"We must rescue him," Duurben said urgently, taking an impulsive step along the faint trail.

Legolas nodded, as if in a strange trance, a thousand memories flashing through his mind. Old captures, old tortures, old agony… and Meldir. His friend, whom he had not managed to save. He shifted in the stained grass, prepared to start out at once. His body protested; his palms were sore with splinters, a long scrape ran from elbow to wrist from landing in the oak tree — //It doesn't matter! None of that matters! We should go — and go now!// Then at his side, Duurben stumbled. With a pain in his chest, as if solid lead had filled his lungs, he whispered, "Yes we must. But — we cannot; not this day."

Duurben gave him an incredulous look, "Legolas, you are his friend! Surely, you would wish to start immediately!"

Legolas fastened his bow over his shoulder with a short gesture, nearly jerking the straps from his quiver, and turned eyes saturated with intense pain on the misunderstanding soldier, "I *do* wish it, Duurben! Yet again, my friend has been dragged away — and to a fate I dare not even consider, else I shall go mad! And here I stand, weighted down by conflicting duties and unable to follow him. It has been a curse on my life since the day we met, and seldom have I loathed it more than I do at this moment. But Kelegalen cannot return Nethtalt, Stavhold and Thalion to our horses alone; even *he* is more greatly injured than is apparent. You yourself are not ready to start out on such a journey. And no matter what his condition, I know quite well what Thorongil would have me do." The elf looked out across the grass with a dreadfully haunted expression on his face, as if he feared he were sealing his friend's doom, "I must return for him later."

"You do not have weapons enough, or a plan either," agreed a voice from behind them. Stavhold had limped far enough down the hill to hear the end of the elf's impassioned words. "Do not worry," he said in a low tone, "we will not simply leave him there. Come, we must away before we are discovered."

Legolas gave one nod and started back up, lending an unobtrusive hand to Duurben as they went. The soldier was silent until they reached the crest of the hill, and then he turned and said quietly, "I am sorry."

The elf shook his head, "There is naught for which to be sorry, Duurben. Do not fear, we will return as soon as the others are safe. Thorongil has survived much in his life, and will certainly do so again."

Even without experience in reading elves, Duurben could tell Legolas did not believe a syllable of his own reassurances.

Nethtalt insisted on walking on his own, but Kelegalen and Thalion stayed on either side of him, supporting him. Gálmod and Legolas returned to the fallen mûmak and collected Stavhold's sword, the spears, and as many of the arrows as were salvageable; they did not wish to be caught unarmed.

They did not rest until they had cleared the sparse trees and entered the hilly ground of the Wold. A small hollow, overhung by a rough boulder, provided shade and protection from unfriendly eyes. Legolas was on the verge of offering to take up watch, when he was startled by the sound of a familiar voice.

"Ah, there you are."

****

TBC…


	20. Friend and Foe

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Sarah here! Happy Easter everyone!! :D

Staran: Thanks! That voice? Just keep reading! And yes, ten chapters to go. :D

Mercredi: Glad you liked that! We figured after living over 2,000 years, Legolas must have used every trick at least twice. ;) Us? Torture queens? *blushes* Really, our stuff isn't half of what Cassia's is… And we didn't think we'd stump everyone so bad on the identity of our mysterious voice! Guess it goes to show that when *you* know who it is, you just assume everyone else does too. You'll find out in just a minute! :P

Gwyn: Thorongil escape without a scratch? Tsk tsk, what kind of writers would that make us? ;) But yes, we're not being terribly nice to Legolas, are we? *brief maniacal chuckle quickly stifled*

Maranwe: Yikes! I can't imagine keeping up with fanfics without internet at home… :O Thanks! And it was weird for us reading SoH while posting too; especially when we ran into similar moments, like Legolas disguising himself in both of our fics! :) Glad you like Duurben and even Stavhold a bit! He is a bit standoffish, but that's mostly because he still feels guilty about chickening out twelve years ago. Yuppers, this story is exactly 30 chapters long. :D About the conversation: I think it must have been the style that made it seem that way, but you're right: Tolkien never really favored casual. Beautiful, yes, but not casual, and our imitation may come off a little stiff. ;) Last of all: we ARE planning another fic titled 'Darkest Night'! We'll be including a trailer for it when this fic is over, but it probably won't appear until summer/fall because we have only yet completed the outline and we never post WIPs. Hope to see you there! :D

Mouse: Yes, we've officially outed him! As for reaction, I think you've seen most of it. And as for betting on anything: that could be dangerous, unless you happen to be betting on Aragorn's chances of getting beat up in a fanfic. :P

Anarril: Thank you so much! We're glad the elf-revelation went well, although you needn't gripe at Thalion: he was just joking about his niece's outgoing personality; it was Legolas who drew a comparison out of it. ;D You *did* just say that, but you aren't the first to do so, and certainly not the first to *think* so. ;) If it makes you feel any better: the mûmak was already mad when it attacked them -- like a hydrophobic dog. It would have died without help, it's just it decided to attack them first. No, I don't think we intend to kill Thorongil or Legolas this time… *checks schedule to be sure* As for Nethtalt: he appreciates the concern, I think, but I'm afraid I can't answer on the subject of his fate. Once again, if it makes you feel any better: as we said at the beginning, we only have two character deaths in this fic. :) We like monster reviews, and about the 'familiar voice': just keep reading! :D

RainyDayz: *covers ears* Yow! Really, we didn't expect to fool anyone with that -- too much prior knowledge keeps you from realizing how a simple sentence doesn't really give much personality away. The identity you want to know? Read on and we shall keep you in suspense no longer! We're so glad you liked our 'revealing Legolas' scene!! Especially his close escape and everyone's reactions. :D Yes, I used to dislike 'Thorongil' too, but after winding up stuck with it for a whole fic, I've gotten pretty well over it. To the point where I sometimes start to type 'Thorongil' instead of 'Aragorn' when responding to Cassia/Sio's posts… :P We just saw Holes yesterday afternoon, and you're right: it was awesome!! Of course, we really liked the book before we saw the movie, and the movie was almost the book verbatim, but they could have ruined it and they didn't. :)

saber crazy: *hands saber a gift certificate to get a manicure* Sorry about that. ;) Yeah, we liked the Lion King a lot, especially when it first came out! Hannah and I and our sister Chloe (author of 'Erfier') used to divide up all the roles and repeat the whole movie -- songs and all -- verbatim. We've forgotten most of it now, but we had a really good laugh when years later three of our younger siblings did the same thing with Toy Story! :D

reginabean: Glad you liked that line!! That one was one of the few survivors of the original version of that scene -- which was almost completely rewritten by the time the editing was all finished. :D And I don't care how much coffee you drink: you remain practically the only person who seems to be enjoying my maps! *hugs regina* I therefore love you and offer you chocolate to go with your coffee. ;D

Elwen: Naw, that's okay: we beat up Aragorn and Legolas themselves plenty without a clone! ;D But by all means: strangle away yourself -- anything to vent your frustration without damaging our plot. You really don't need to worry like that though because-- er, just keep reading. :)

w: Thank you ever so much!! On our battle scenes: you know by now how we are about those — anything nice said about them practically sends us walking on air (or at least: it does me — Hannah's better at it, so she doesn't worry about it as much as I do). :) On the elf-revelation: I'm so glad that went over well! And yeah, I wanted Duurben to accept him right of the bat too (being rather fond of him myself), but that's a classic example of me putting aside my Hollywood inclinations and trying a desperate stab for realism. Believe it or not, the concept doesn't come easily to me! ;) On putting off Operation Rescue Thorongil: *sighs in relief* One of those scenes where you figure either people will like your reasoning and pleasantly scold you for putting the poor characters in jeopardy, or hate your reasoning and complain that it's a complete departure from Legolas' character! That's kind of what happened after a similar incident in Death or Despair… Anyway, ThAnK yOu!! And on our cliffy: Really?? Amazing. Honestly, we never considered that chapter to be a cliffy — but that was probably just because we always knew who the person was. So it's a lucky extra for us, a not-so-lucky problem for you. Thanks for taking it so well! :D Now are you sure you want to get back to Thorongil…?

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Thorongil

By Sarah and Hannah (Siri)

(disclaimers, explanations, and summaries 

available at the top of chapter 1)

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Chapter 20

Friend and Foe

"Mithrandir!" Legolas cried in shock and delight. 

The wizard eased in the hollow with the bearing of someone accustomed to command, and raised a heavy gray eyebrow at the mostly injured group sitting there. His piercing gaze came at last to rest on the elf, who was also looking none too healthy after his exertions. 

"I might have known." The tone was gruff, hiding his concern from those unfamiliar with him.

"How came you here?" Legolas asked, ignoring the comment.

"Impatient elf; sitting down to exchange pleasantries within miles of your enemies!" Gandalf snorted. "As for 'how': I walked, naturally. Now come, you should not stay here."

Kelegalen rose uncertainly, guessing that the stranger was friendly by Legolas' reception of him, but unsure if his men could move without rest. "I am Kelegalen of Rohan and the leader of these men. Whom might you be?"

"I am Gandalf the Gray," Gandalf returned with a sudden courtesy, removing his blue hat. "I have heard of you from Legolas here." 

The Rohirrim stared. They had heard of Gandalf as well, but only as a wizard, seldom seen in the lands of the horse lords. This stooped, gray clad traveler, carrying only a satchel, a cloak and a gnarled staff did not seem to match the tales, as Legolas had not. But now the authority of his stern face called for their attention as he replaced his hat and peered out into the sun from under its wide brim. "Your men are injured and weary, but it is foolhardy to remain. The other Haradrim in charge of the mûmakil have discovered your work and will soon come in search of its authors. Come." He started out westwards, seeming to know already which direction to go.

Kelegalen turned to Legolas in question. The elf picked up his weapons, "You would be wise to do as he says. He would be the first to tell you that he is generally right about such things as this."

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With steady urging from Gandalf, they reached Nannva by early evening and decided to rest but a short while before riding on to Medui. The horses seemed glad at their masters' return and whinnied from the repaired paddock behind the barn in which Aldor had hid. Much of the ash had blown from the ground, leaving the blackened beams of the houses clean cut against the pale winter grass.

Medicines and bandages were retrieved from Maerhiin's saddle bags and passed about as they took their rest. It was only then that the wizard pulled Legolas into a more private corner and sat him down, his calloused hands gently but firmly catching hold of the slender ones of the elf. They were still sore with splinters and scratches and Legolas, though glad for the respite, winced as the wizard examined them, turning them towards the light and working carefully to clean them. Eventually, Legolas' attention drifted to the others and the pain lowered to a dull ache.

Gandalf's blue eyes were soft as he looked at the elf, who was unaware of the scrutiny, "Legolas, where is Meldir?"

The elf inhaled slowly, and his gaze turned back only as far as his knees. Now that he had already told the tale once, it seemed easier to tell the wizard what had become of his friend; starting from when they had parted from Gandalf — a seeming age ago. And then he continued on, telling of Thorongil's presence in Rohan, the Southrons, Thorongil's rescue, Kelegalen and Nethtalt and the other Rohirrim, the plan to spy on the enemy, the catapults, the crossing of the river, the confrontation with the mûmak, and the final capture of Thorongil. The wizard listened keenly and continued his work.

When the elf finished, Gandalf was silent for a long moment, placing his medicines back in his satchel. At last he said, "You did not do too badly, young prince."

"It is difficult to believe so." Legolas shook himself, "We will be glad to have you with us. I think the others have an easier time accepting a wizard than an elf."

"You seem so sure I am going!" the wizard protested.

"Mithrandir," Legolas retorted in his own language, "you are nearly as meddlesome as Estel: of course you are going."

"Impudent scamp," Gandalf rumbled, but the twinkle in his eyes proved the elf correct. "You and your friend have become quite a nuisance to me, you know; I can hardly understand how Elrond copes. It took me days to find your trail after Lord Celeborn told me you had never arrived. He was quite concerned."

Legolas started, having almost forgotten what his original destination had been. "What did he do?"

"He sent word to your father. I believe he requested a fresh copy of that message you lost, so it would seem you are no longer needed in that corner of Middle Earth. Just as well." A snort followed this last comment.

"If you mean to imply that I would refuse to leave Strider in the hands of these barbarians and go to retrieve an unimportant letter," Legolas began, "then you would be right."

"Mm," the wizard nodded sagely. "That boy attracts more trouble than a warg does fleas. He will be great some day, if he can only survive his friendships in the meantime."

"Shall I saddle Maerhiin for you?" Legolas queried calmly, having heard this lecture delivered before; to Thorongil as well as to himself.

"I can saddle my own horse," Gandalf replied genially, and rose with the aid of his staff. "Though your half dead young friend over there may need help with his."

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Their return to Medui in the dead of night was hazy to them afterwards, for they were extremely weary. Kelegalen sent off a messenger to Thengel at once, telling of the catapults and requesting orders. Aldor helped to stable the horses, explaining eagerly to his father that he had waited for them nearly every night. Gandalf was introduced to Eorwine, who seemed both awed and skeptical of this ancient man and his sharp gaze, large nose, and gruff mannerisms.

In the middle of this Findel suddenly broke in upon them, took one look at Nethtalt — who was utterly spent from the ride — and blanched. It was all the young man could do in his weakened state to reassure her that they were all well, and had done what they had been sent out to do. She nodded shakily, and then insisted that he be laid down somewhere so that she and her aunt could tend to him. Kelegalen, understandingly, did not explain that he had already done so in Nannva.

At last Legolas was free to go and rest. He moved out of the fort and alongside the wall, entering his tent from the back. Thorongil's cot lay mussed and empty, as if he had just risen. The elf felt a sudden loneliness and fatigue come over him and collapsed onto the second cot. He was too exhausted to worry, and soon his eyes closed soundlessly. When Duurben entered shortly afterwards to offer the elf a portion of the late-night soup Rokhiell had prepared, he found Legolas completely immersed in a dreamless sleep. Grabbing the blanket from under the elf's boots, he draped it hesitantly over the sleeping figure and left, standing still under the brilliant ice-like constellations above.

"Is he asleep?" a voice asked.

Duurben started, only now noticing the hunched figure, smoking near the gateway. It was the wizard, Gandalf. The soldier's answer was cautious, "Yes."

"Good. You should rest too."

For some reason, Duurben did not resent the order. "I suppose," he agreed.

"Enough supposing and go!" Gandalf directed peremptorily. "Your captain will need to be retrieved soon, I fancy, and at present neither you nor the elf are in any condition to leave."

"I am fine," Duurben protested, "and Legolas is just tired."

The wizards thick, bushy eyebrows rose into the shadow that was cast by his hat brim. "His eyes are closed, aren't they?" He did not wait for an answer to this singularly baffling question, but rose. "Whatever you young folk decide to do in the late watches, I intend to sleep. I must go and see the blacksmith tomorrow early." He knocked his pipe clean and seemed to melt into the dark.

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Thorongil felt a wave of harsh cold jolt him sharply from unconsciousness. He let out several gasping breaths as his eyes opened, and as he came out of his daze he felt ice cold water dripping from his face down his tunic — aggravating the cuts and other injuries from the battle with the mûmak. His eyelashes clung in points as he blinked, water obscuring his vision.

"Good," a rough voice sounded above him, "you're finally awake." This comment, spoken in an accented form of the common tongue, was punctuated by a cruel kick in the chest. Not expecting it, the captain gave a sharp moan. "Get him up," the voice snapped irritably. 

Thorongil was roughly dragged to his feet and felt his leg buckle beneath him from a stiff wound; this was also when he noticed his hands were bound tightly behind him. Trying desperately to regain his memory from before his capture, he vaguely recalled fighting the mûmak, Nethtalt falling beneath the rotted tree, and before that he remembered speaking with Legolas. Still, all was tangled together and the ungentle handling was quickly driving all other thoughts from his mind. 

Trying to catch sight of his captor he lifted his head and felt a stab of pain rush between his temples; obviously the remaining headache from the scouts' attack. However, he was able to catch a glimpse of the man ahead of him. He was tall, with the usual long piece of cloth wound about his dark hair, and by his strong presence and forceful stride Thorongil realized he was an important individual of some kind. A general, likely.

Sudden recognition seized his mind, and after another moment he knew why: this was Brerg, Harnwe's chief general, the one who had been at the head of the prisoner exchanged. Thorongil couldn't say he felt anything short of dismay at being this man's captive, for now more than ever the captain was left with no doubts of what lay in store for him.

After another moment Brerg raised his hand and the men holding Thorongil came to a halt. Thorongil turned his head carefully and realized for the first time that they were in the midst of the Southron military camp, standing now by the ruins of Tulganif. All around warriors of the Southron army were forming ranks and making all manner of preparations for the attack that would doubtless be launched soon.

Painfully Thorongil took hold of himself once more and as his strength came to him again, he stood a little straighter and faced the tent which Brerg had just entered.

After a moment's wait a man came from tent, followed at a distance by the general, and it was now that Captain Thorongil of Gondor faced King Harnwe — a Southron warrior in his days of strength and unyielding both in presence and authority. He spoke shortly to Brerg in his own tongue before switching to common speech and as he did this he turned unemotional eyes in a leisurely way on the prisoner. Thorongil marshaled his best semblance of calm and met the king's gaze squarely, willing his body to remain steady.

"A captain you say?" Harnwe asked, surprise carefully hidden in his tone.

"It is plain to see by the crest he wears, my lord," Brerg nodded slightly. "And I recall him from the prisoner exchange." The man lowered his tone slightly, "Any man in such a position is sure to know things that will be useful to us."

Harnwe glanced at Thorongil and nodded heavily, "See to it, Brerg. Inform me later of what he tells you."

Brerg bowed at the waist and gave a respectful reply in his own tongue. Harnwe then turned from them and reentered his tent, his cloak spreading behind him.

"Take him," Brerg ordered simply, gesturing to his men, and Thorongil barely kept his feet as they forced him in the direction indicated. He knew better than to waste energy on a struggle; there was no way he could escape so many. A dread he could not help rose in his throat like bile, but beneath the natural fear was the heart of soldier. If die he must, then die he would, and silently.

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Harnwe entered the tent without awaiting the woman's pleasure, for he knew where she would be: lying unashamedly on her divan like one stricken with illness; now weeping, now staring coldly at the wall, speaking naught and hearing no reason. Long had she aided her husband with shrewd counsels — it was unlike her to abandon him thus. 

"My own," Harnwe's voice held the tone of persuasion, "know you not how it pains me to see you thus broken? Your beauty diminishes and your spirit dwindles. Trouble yourself in loss no longer but take heart in our near victory!"

"I shall be not appeased until I have taken blood for my brother's sake," Mavranor bit out angrily, righting herself suddenly before her husband. 

"My own," Harnwe began once more, pleased that she was sitting for once, and casting for something to please her, "our catapults are nearing completion, the men are drilling and will be ready to march at any time, and there is even now a prisoner in the camp who may provide yet more for us."

"Oh?" Mavranor said, her fingers moving fretfully along her gown.

Harnwe smiled and followed the subject that seemed to interest her, "Yes, and a strange man he is. I wonder as to his true heritage, for he is surely not one of Rohirrim kind, but at the hands of Brerg he may reveal information that will set our plans into motion sooner than we had hoped."

Mavronor's face slowly rose to his level and she looked at him quietly in the eyes. Something in her haunted eyes sparked, like a flint upon dead wood, and a fire seemed to kindle there. She rose slowly from her divan, moving gradually towards the king as she spoke.

"Tell me, my lord, I pray thee: may I not see this prisoner?" 

Hiding his sigh of relief, he drew her close and kissed her, "I cannot deny you." 

For the first time in too long, she smiled.

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Thorongil's head hung forward as he tried to breath, needing air desperately, but wincing and inhaling again reflexively each time his lungs expanded. He was only allowed a brief moment's rest, however, before he was delivered another painful blow that knocked what breath he had gained from him once again. His hands were bound tightly to posts jutting from the ground at angles towards him; he had no way to block the blows as they came.

Brerg paced before him with a horribly genuine pleasure before speaking again in a measured, condescending tone, "Are you so witless that you do not see? We may treat you mildly for the present, but one way or another we will loosen your tongue."

Throrongil did not speak and simply stared fixedly at the ground before him. He saw the heavy rod a moment before it struck him again and he jerked forward spasmodically, but still no word came from his mouth. 

There was a pause as the man wielding the rod drew back for another blow and then abruptly, there was a break in the proceedings as the tent opened and a figure entered. Thorongil raised his head to see who had come… and looked again upon the cold, grave face of Mavranor. Her eyes sought out his and as she saw him, her expression became quite still. She had replayed the scene within her head too many times to forget that face. 

With a swelling that was equally exultation and hatred, she gripped tightly the handle of a familiar weapon she held in her hand.

****

TBC…


	21. A Plan of Sabotage

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*Sarah, the ever-present and ever-rambling, enters* Hi everyone! :D

phoenix queen: No problemo! If there's one thing we understand it's the way life is occasionally, uh, intrudes — to put it mildly. Why do you think our next fic won't be coming out until mid-summer at the very earliest? We don't like to make promises we can't keep, that's why. :P Good luck on your exams! Hope all your hard work pays off. As for next week: I think we'll still be posting… I'll have to double check that, but if we aren't, we'll look forward to seeing you on 'Darkest Night', whenever we finish it. Namarie for now! :)

saber crazy: *blinks* Whoa, I didn't realize elves cursed! ;P Ah, an honest torture fan! How nice. Not for Thorongil, but for us. ;) You still have all of those memorized? Cool! There must be a way to use that talent somewhere… ;D 

Asen: *stares as Asen flies away on… _cardboard wings??_* Uh, sure, no problem. *jaw begins to feel sore from hanging open like that* Uh… *closes mouth and smiles* I mean, yeah, busy happens! Don't worry, we understand. :) Glad you liked the reintroduction of Gandalf! He's one of our absolute favorite characters and we just couldn't resist — even if he is a pain in the neck to write. ;) As for Thorongil… no, his luck isn't exactly the greatest, is it? :P

Anarril: Thanks! Glad you liked Gandalf; yup, Legolas is tired; yup, Mavranor wants blood; yup, Thorongil's in trouble; and yup they're safe enough, I suppose, but what if they suffocate under all that? *pokes pile of armor with toe* LOL! ;) 

Gwyn: Yes, after many LOTR fanfics, we are obliged to admit that Thorongil just sort of attracts this kind of thing. Alas — for him! :D And we'll try to keep Legolas endearing, but I don't know if what we have is half as endearing as what Sio cranks out as easily as breathing… *sigh* But no one can say we didn't try! ;D

Maranwe: Thank you so much! *sigh* Aye, alas, 'twas too tempting for us to stand. *glances guiltily at Thorongil, who is getting beaten senseless* Well, it's Mavranor's fault! :P Glad you're looking forward to more chapters! Wish I could say the same for our heroes… ;) We've always liked that aspect of Gandalf's character and really enjoyed using it here — which character in the books was it that said 'may you always arrive where you are most needed and least expected'? As for whether this is the ending or the beginning… time will tell! :) On the chapter subject: I'm not sure if you should quit mentioning it or not — it's becoming somewhat traditional, isn't it? ;D

Mercredi: We really surprised you? Great! :D And you're right: they're really aren't many people who can joke with elves that way, but it's funny when they (make that 'he') pop(s) up. :) What kind of authors would we be if Thorongil's life became easy? :P

Lina: ROTFLOLATND!! *glub blub* If you were wonder that was 'rolls on the floor laughing out loud and then nearly drowns. *catches hold of Gandalf and Leoglas' boat* Good grief Lina, sometimes you are too much even for us: yes, us! Sarah and Hannah, older siblings of the infamously goofy Chloe! As for Duurben… *glances over to where Thorongil is resuscitating his buddy with a resigned air* He'll live, but we'll never get him near water again at this rate! ;D *sees Lina dash off after Mavranor* Um, Lina…?

(a few minutes later) Eomer: Yikes, you're right, that *was* too close! But we know you'll do your job; we have great faith in you! Rohirrim: (monotone) You're welcome! ;P Now who's going pump out the forest so you can ride south without drowning…?

Mouse: *glances around, wondering where hers and Hannah's Easter eggs went…* Like we said, we were really surprised when everyone else was stumped like that! Prior knowledge messes rather badly with your perception of your own writing, it seems. Glad we got a bit of an extra surprise in there for you! :)

RainyDayz: WoW! We never realized we had such devoted readers… *stares in amazed admiration* I've never actually had that happen myself (I'm the only one of the two of us who wears glasses at all regularly), but glasses as a rule sure are a pain, aren't they? :P Ooh, I'm SO glad you like that part!! I rather wanted it to go over well. *big smile* Thank you ever so much for reviewing in spite of all difficulties!! We really appreciate your feedback. *hugs Rainy* :)

Staran: Congratulations!! Glad you approve. ;D

Iverson: S'okay, we like lurkers fine, so long as they give us an opinion when they can. :) And rescuing Thorongil sounds good to me. *glances hintingly at Gandalf and Legolas*

None: Thanks! Glad you liked it so much! But gosh, as much as we love our readers and don't like to ignore their orders, 'Thorongil safe and happy' just isn't nearly as interesting as 'Thorongil hurt and desperate'… Sorry in advance? :D

w: *bounces gleefully* Golly, you liked Gandalf, and Duurben, and our Legolas angst (such as it was), and our Thorongil torture, and even Mavranor and Harnwe (so to speak)! Sorry that we're causing you to miss out on sleep like that, but I'm afraid we enjoy your feedback too much for us to suggest — as perhaps we ought — that you find another story to review that doesn't have you typing at 2 am. ;D It's okay about 'Gandalf-y': it certainly got the idea across, and we're so glad he's turning out right! It's one think to like Gandalf because he's crusty on the outside and soft underneath, and helpful and skilled; not to mention clever, secretive, humorous, and unexpected — but it's far different proposition to actually *write* him that way! To be honest, as much as we couldn't help but include such a favorite character of ours, he's probably been one of the most edited figures in this story (probably right after Findel, in an ongoing attempt to avoid Mary Sue-ism). ;) *shakes w's hand* Pleased to meet another Aragorn-torture lover! Hannah does most of that in our stories (she did all the stuff you've read so far), but I enjoy reading it when she or Cassia write it! :D More pleased than I can say that Harnwe and Mavranor came off as intended; to be exact: sick. In spite of the fact that they do love each other as much as such people are able, that somehow just adds to the problem. *disgusted face* Thank you so much!!

Now then: more story! :D

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Thorongil

By Sarah and Hannah (Siri)

(disclaimers, explanations, and summaries 

available at the top of chapter 1)

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Chapter 21

A Plan of Sabotage

Legolas slept until late morning and awoke much refreshed. The usual wind seemed to have stilled for a short time and as he silently opened the stable door to try to determine where Gandalf had gone, he immediately caught the sound of voices.

"…I can go!"

"I do not wish for you to endanger yourself when you are still recovering."

"I am well, Father, truly! And you will be best served if you can bring the men you brought originally, as the king suggested. That would most certainly include me, for I saw the catapults myself; Thalion has not done as much."

"Nethtalt…" the protest trailed away and across from Legolas, Kollnaur, Kelegalen's steed, stamped. The owner of the horse and his son both turned and caught sight of the elf standing in the doorway. "Legolas?"

"I am sorry to intrude," the elf apologized, "I was in search of Gandalf."

"He spoke with Kelegalen earlier, and then I believe I saw him in the village," Nethtalt offered, "but what his business was, I could not have said."

Legolas nodded and turned to go, but Kelegalen halted him, "You had best know of this before you go; the others have already read it. The king sent us a return message requesting that the commander of the original expedition — which would be myself — take whatever force necessary and destroy the enemy's weapons as secretly as may be. He hopes, I believe, to draw the Southrons out on our battle plan as intended." Kelegalen shrugged faintly over that, making no judgment one way or the other. "Eorwine cannot spare many extra men to us so I had intended to take only those who had accompanied me on the first trip. They were none of them seriously injured except my son here, but…" here he gave Nethtalt a searching look, "I do not think I will leave even him behind."

Nethtalt's smile was full and genuine.

"I am glad King Thengel is taking such prompt action," Legolas said warmly, "and you cannot hope for better men." But then he hesitated, unsure of how to say what he needed to say.

Kelegalen's expression showed clearly his understanding, "For twenty catapults, I will only have need of a few men. Half a dozen at most. So if you and Duurben would consent to wait but a short while longer, we should be able to accompany you as far as the camp and then rejoin you and Thorongil when our work is completed. I would not think of leaving him in their hands."

"I am grateful, Kelegalen," Legolas said softly.

The stable door swung open again to reveal the imposing form of Gandalf, but he was rendered somewhat more commonplace by the large sack over his shoulder which appeared to contain black grain. "My goodness, what one must go through for the most common of ingredients," the wizard grumbled.

"What are you about, Gandalf?" Legolas asked in astonishment, staring at the other items his friend had procured.

"If you, Kelegalen, intend to destroy even half of your target with only five men, you will need something more destructive than a common axe," the wizard's voice took on a lecturing tone as he removed his hat and ran a gnarled hand through his gray hair.

"Aye," the Rohirrim nodded, "though the greater difficulty in my mind is how to approach them without being apprehended by the sentries. It will require something in the way of a diversion, probably staged at the nearby camp — but *what* is a mystery to me."

The wizard's eyes twinkled, "There at least I can aid you, and perhaps in your intended destruction as well."

"You can distract all the sentries and half a camp of Southrons at once?" Nethtalt asked incredulously.

"That would be a terrible waste of materials," the wizard frowned, concealing his humor from everyone but Legolas. "I fully intend to distract all of Bywater from here, or else it is not worth trying. All that should remain for you is to smuggle it into their camp in some way or other; preferably into a foundry, if you happen to have blacksmith in your company."

"Not exactly," Nethtalt demurred, "but I may know enough to do it. I had some training in those skills… years ago." He cast a sidelong glance at Legolas.

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"The only difficulty, then, is whether I can slip in and out of their camp undetected," Nethtalt leaned on his elbows, resting his chin on his laced fingers.

Duurben nodded his understanding, though he would not be going with the sabotage party. Behind him in the small kitchen area came the soft thumps of bread dough being kneaded, the rhythmic pounding mixing with the sounds of Rokhiell humming under her breath. Findel listened to the talk as she worked, tidying the single bedroom that her aunt, uncle and cousin shared in the borrowed house. Her hair was bound like a rope in the back with a long strip of brown cloth.

Now she paused, "Whatever else, you cannot go with your hair as it is, even under a turban."

Thalion turned to smile at his niece, "As usual, it falls to the woman to remember such details. She is right, of course: the Southrons all have dark hair, and darker skin for that matter."

"He could dye it," Duurben suggested.

"Aye," Findel agreed, as if she had been leading up to that, "Aunt Rokhiell has berries that you could use; she uses them for clothing, but they ought to do well for a few days." She paused a moment, pushing at the stray hair about her face in an unconscious gesture, as if she were about to plunge over a cliff, "And you would stand out not at all if I were to accompany you."

Nethtalt blinked, staring as if he hadn't heard correctly, "Findel, what— no, of course not!"

"*Why* not?" she asked, taking a step closer.

"Because I — we cannot risk you that way!" the young man fumbled, coming dangerously close to openly admitting what everyone else already knew.

"And you think I can risk you? I cannot fight or ride into battle and have no intention of trying, Nethtalt, but only of aiding you in this one fashion. They will not even spare you a second glance if you are accompanied by," a similar fumble, "your sister. Cannot you allow me to help in even this small way?" There was pleading in her eyes, "I who would gladly die this moment if it assured me you all might live?" Her tone broke on the last words as she seemingly forgot that there were others present. "I have lost too many dear ones in my life already."

Nethtalt lifted his hand and almost touched her cheek with the tips of his fingers, then shook his head slowly, "No, Findel. I cannot let you." He started to say more, but then stopped himself, the words dying stillborn. A silence as heavy as midwinter snow settled over and about them. In the other room, Rokhiell's humming had ceased.

Findel's eyes lowered. "Very well," she agreed softly, her lips set.

As she left the room, Duurben wondered why she had given in so suddenly.

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Nethtalt was absent for most of the rest of the day. Thalion explained the reason briefly to Legolas and Kelegalen, and they did not try to find the young man. Gandalf had vanished into the armory, only reappearing once or twice, and by late evening his work was completed. Wrapping his creations carefully, he divided them amongst the saddle bags of the saboteurs — for the horses were again to accompany them as far as Nannva. Legolas and Duurben were also bringing Maerhiin and intended to ride the whole way to the Anduin, since they did not plan to cross it.

"Five per horse and one extra," Gandalf announced. "Nethtalt will need to carry the diversionary package."

"That is only five horses," Legolas reminded the wizard searchingly. "Will you not be carrying any?"

Gandalf shook his head, "I am not coming."

"What?" Legolas' face was incredulous. "Why?"

"Because you seemed to have the situation well in hand and a feeble man such as myself would only be a hindrance," the wizard's eyes twinkled slightly.

"Mithrandir," the elf scolded in his own tongue, "do not tease."

"I wasn't. You do not in fact need me, Legolas Greenleaf, so far as I can foresee. Therefore I intend to remain here and rest. It has been most a most tiring journey to reach this point."

Legolas raised a single eyebrow. The thought of resting in Medui — with the day of battle approaching ever nearer — was almost a cause for laughter. But the wizard knew what he was about, and the elf did not question him any further.

When Nethtalt returned he finished packing his saddle bag, ate the evening meal with the others, and then took his sword and spear and sat beside the fire, sharpening them. *kkkshhhingg* *kkkshhhingg* The whetstone rubbed in a rhythm like Rokhiell's bread dough.

"Has anyone seen Findel?" It was Aldor at the doorway, his tousled blond hair telling of his run through the cold wind outside.

Thalion rose from the corner and greeted his son, "She went for a ride on Gailloth and hasn't returned, but she has never been lost on the Wold and you may tell your mother that I have given her permission to cease worrying."

Aldor grinned, his red nose wrinkling under a smattering of old summer freckles. He seemed to recollect something, "Oh, Mother said to bring Nethtalt this." The boy held out a small bottle, stained dark about the rim. It was the dye.

"Thank you, Aldor," Nethtalt smiled, only his eyes holding any trace of the distress from earlier in the day. "You intend to look after your mother and cousin, do you not?"

"Of course!" the boy agreed, faintly wide-eyed with importance. "I've been practicing with my bow. I'd wager I can aim as well as — as —" he seemed at a loss for a comparison, "as Legolas!"

The elf laughed merrily, though his heart felt heavy. He remembered the last human he had taught to aim, and the enthusiasm was much the same in the boy's eyes, though not nearly so well hidden by either maturity or modesty.

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Mavranor's eyes grew black and empty, bottomless, like twin openings on a great abyss. It was him. The man. The man who had driven the knife into her brother's body until his blood and life had poured from him, leaving him a cold body on the cold ground... She bit the inside of her lip until she could taste her own blood in her mouth. Turning fiercely to Harnwe she spoke in her own tongue, "He is indeed foreign my lord, and I shall see that he is properly questioned." 

Harnwe nodded to her before taking his leave. Uninterested directly with this prisoner beyond what aid he might gain from the man's knowledge, he was willing to leave the task to his wife and his general. 

Mavranor rounded again. Ignoring Brerg, who had bowed to her upon her entering, she moved towards the man bound before her. He did not avert his eyes and stared fixedly at her as she spoke again in the common tongue so that he would be sure to understand her.

"At last the stars favor me. I have wept, thinking this moment would never come, and now, beyond all hope, it has been placed in my hand that I may smite the murderer who has thus destroyed me."

Thorongil heard the words and the hatred behind them, and his hands clenched as she came to a halt before him.

From her side she brought a knife into his sight. Crusted to it still was the bitter stain of dried blood and he recognized the handle instantly. It was the dagger Kelegalen had given him and he had lost defending himself and Findel against the Southron prisoner. Wordlessly Mavranor pressed the knife against Thorongil's cheek redirecting his attention to her.

"You will pay dearly for what you have stolen for me you barbarian of the foreign race. You are not even of the Rohirrim blood, but of Gondor. Think I do not know you for what you are? Long have your people oppressed those of mine and my house and no longer shall the Lady Mavranor endure such cruelty!" she spat the words in his face viciously, the steel blade biting cleanly into Thorongil's cheek. "Now you have murdered my brother in cold blood, and for that you will pay the terrible price, and at one with this you will deliver my people to their victory. Tell me now what plot your king intends for your defense," she commanded.

Thorongil did not speak, but continued to stare at her. She shifted her own gaze and stepped away, motioning to Brerg.

The man moved forward and Mavranor brought the full power of her persuasive tongue to bear on the Gondorian captain, "Speak now or feel the pain of your foolishness."

Thorongil was silent, knowing already what was coming and bracing himself.

The whip bit deeply into his back once, twice, then slashed again in the same places, ripping through cloth and slicing further into his flesh. Thorongil did not make a sound, but clenched his fists until his knuckles were white. The lash came down once more, snapping again through its first tracks. Mavranor let it continue, relishing each strike and taking pleasure in the strained look on her captive's face. Each strike was but another part of the payment for her brother's blood, and she determined to make this man return every last drop.

"You only prolong your death. I promise you it will not be painless even so, but there is no reason to add additional pain," she whispered convincingly.

Still the man kept silent, his eyes straying not to hers now that he had again fixed his gaze before him. He held tightly to his resolve, remembering those he must not betray — picturing their faces in his head. Mavranor was determined to break that strength, but she could not even begin to trace it and it made her grow still more enraged. 

Lash upon lash fell on Thorongil's back and after a short time, the rhythmic beating became hard to bear. Each tracked across the last, deeply cutting him and making his face contort in pain. Still he did not speak, still he did not make a noise. 

Mavranor at last motioned for them to cease and she dropped down before the prisoner, her eyes shining like steel, "You are a fool, man of Gondor! I will make you suffer terribly for all you have done, I will allow them to beat you until you scream for mercy, until you cry to be sent to your death! The last you will remember is the bite of this steel against your heart before you are passed from the earth!" Viciously Mavranor stabbed the dagger into Thorongil's shoulder driving it to the hilt. Thorongil let out a cry, unable to hold it back and he gasped again as she twisted it sharply, jerking it from the wound. "Do you wish it to end?" she asked threateningly, stabbing him again in the other shoulder so that he jerked convulsively. "It will not end until you speak the words I wish to hear." Slowly she began to twist the dagger in his wound, Thorongil felt the pain rip through him, his breath was taxed sharply and began to come in choked moans.

At last he turned his face towards her — his eyes were set upon hers and he spoke, his voice soft with agony, yet firm and as unwavering as the mountain of solid stone, "I have no words I would speak to you, true or false, and I will not beg your mercy." That was all he could manage. While he knew she would kill him for these words, yet he was now unafraid.

Mavranor, however, changed suddenly in countenance. Deeply did she gaze into the eyes of her enemy and fear welled with in her. The eyes were sharp, commanding, powerful — she felt suddenly as though she were at his mercy, that he could break the bonds that held him like so many worn threads and destroy her and all her people. Her heart throbbed erratically and her breath came short. She felt a barely concealed terror at the sight of this strange man. In a single motion she jerked the blade from Thorongil's shoulder and let out a scream, slashing her nails like the claws of a wild beast against his face, leaving bleeding welts in their wake.

Rising to her feet she turned to Brerg, "I leave him to your hands, General. Be neither lenient, nor merciful in your questioning; force the truth from him, but come inform me before he is dead!" Brandishing the dagger before Brerg, her black eyes flashed, "It will be as I said: I will see to it that this dagger is pierced through his heart!"

Mavranor then threw back the flap of the tent and departed without turning her face back to the prisoner.

****

TBC…


	22. A New Companion

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Guess who? Okay, yeah, it's Sarah. Can I help it if the story is stored on my hard drive? ;)

saber crazy: Happy to please! Unfortunately (for you, not for Thorongil), his agony is not as prolonged as it might have been; but then, it's getting hard to do that without copying either Cassia, or ourselves… :P Yeah, I can imagine dwarvish has plenty such words. LOL! Memory as a general skill is a whole other issue! I myself already have all the difficulties that my grandmother has in that area, leaving me to wonder what I'll do when *I'm* 60-something… Frightening thought. ;)

Lina: LOL! Ahem. No, it wasn't that funny, really, but you sure made *us* laugh! :D For crying out loud, though, I thought we'd made it perfectly clear that Findel is Nethtalt's girl alone and doesn't care sixpence for 'your' Thorongil! *shakes head* Don't tell me you want Nethtalt TOO now. :| *runs to pull Mavranor to safety, then drops the horrid woman in a heap* The everlasting conflict of fanfic writing! You spend your time alternately beating up the heroes and rescuing the villains. :P

Eomer: *rubs finger in ear* My goodness, your Rohirrim have… unbelievable singing capabilities. Maybe we ought to pay them extra after all… *is deafened by cheers, followed by a louder chorus on the part of the Rohirrim* WAIT! *Rohirrim pause, mid-sentence* We meant pay you extra to stop. For pay you will of course be getting the standard wage package for thread guards: eighty pounds of chocolate apiece and reimbursement for horse feed, as well as a bonus of tickets to Disney World in Florida (if you ever manage to go south) in return for cleaning up so much. As for vacation, you'll get a nice one in about nine chapters. These terms are marginally negotiable, but right now you ought to know that sneak previews of Nefredal stolen from Chloe's computer are not available, and neither are gold-plated rubber duckies. We appreciate your constant hard work and desire to maintain good relations in hopes of having you back for 'Darkest Night' sometime this summer/fall. Very sincerely (blah blah blah), Sarah and Hannah :D

Anarril: Yep, Mavranor's not the most objective human being in Middle Earth. *bows at sarcastic applause that greets this understatement* ;D Glad she's making the intended impression! (Even if I'm sorry she's making you a trifle ill…) Ooh, you've got several good guesses here! I can't tell you which ones, but read on and you'll see. ;) Once again: hugs for liking Findel!! :D No, she isn't related to Eowyn (although Thengel's little girl, Theodwyn, is actually Eowyn's mother). And yes, two character deaths is correct, but one of them has already happened — alas for Meldir — so that may help you feel a little less worried. :)

None: Thanks! We'll see what we can do. ;)

RainyDayz: You may very well be correct on several of those predictions! I'm afraid I can't say anymore than that. ;) Glad you like our Gandalf/Legolas stuff. :D And yes, we're mean, we admit it openly and freely! But really now, where do you think we ought to have stabbed him? Most other spots are either too likely to be fatal, and then we'd have a *dead* Thorongil — at which point you'd give up calling us 'mean' and come after us with a machete. :P Thank you so much on the scared-Mavranor bit! In general it's not possible for the villains to find out just who it is they've been beating up (at which point they might very well finish him off), so this is our compromise, if that's the right word. :) Oh yeah, and we like 'long'. ;D

Mouse: *sighs* Okay, we'll see what we can do about 'arrar'. But for the Easter eggs, mind you! ;D

Gwyn: Interesting question, though you'd probably have to alter it to: What would Aragorn do if he walked in to find Legolas killed in the process of trying to kill an innocent civilian? *dodges tomatoes from irate Legolas fans for making such a suggestion* All the same, if Thorongil were anything but half-dead right now, he probably *would* still be feeling sorry for her. As for possible Legolas problems: hope our 'scratch' is up to scratch! *flees more tomatoes at bad pun* ;D

Maranwe: *considers request to bind Mavranor* Sorry; it's not that I don't *want* to, but… plot, you know, there's still a plot here we need to consider. ;D The sudden appearances of Gandalf are of Tolkien's invention, and I believe it has something to do with his second sight as a Maiar, though I can't be sure of that. One of my favorite parts regarding that in the books is when someone (can't recall who) says to him, "May you ever appear where you are most needed and least expected." :) SO glad you liked Nethtalt and Findel! As for 'crazy': Findel? Ha! *grins innocently* :P Don't worry, eventually Cassia will begin posting her next fic and it will be all better. *realizes that she probably hasn't convinced Maranwe a jot* This one's a couple pages longer than usual, but not much. ;) And we're so pleased we brighten up your day!! Believe me, your feedback makes that a two-way street: we love hearing what you think. :D

Larus: Thanx!! And actually, you're review this time was about the same length. :D *passes all the torture praise to Hannah* She's the blatant-torture queen of our house — I tend to stick with accidental injury and minor torture. Really, though, she's absolutely harmless in person! ;D Cliffs are becoming a specialty of Thorongil's (although we tried to make this one more of an incline and less of an obvious 'cliff'), and yes, several of those moves were used from the movie! ;) Oh, we made you mad? *begins to smile and then straightens out her face immediately* I mean, sorry about that, it's true: Galmod's a sniveling little toad. And I like that quote of K's! I use it frequently myself when reading the news. :P Yeah, I think the popping up thing must be one of the products of being a Maiar; and fortunately he and Galmod aren't going to be spending that much time together. ;) On the rank question: we know Thorongil was a captain from what Tolkien writes, but we couldn't find anything on the Southron military hierarchy, so technically 'general' is our own invention, yes. The Rohirrim rank system is headed chiefly by the king and the marshals (Bronweg is a marshal), but we're uncertain of their system beyond that and so took the liberty of filling in the blanks for them as well. :) Thank you so very much on behalf of Mavranor (who is too preoccupied just now to be polite ;) — we're glad her bout of absolute fury hasn't manage to ruin her character. When we decided to include a couple females in this fic, we tackled the job with the sort of 'grit-your-teeth' attitude we have towards battle scenes: we desperately wanted to avoid all the pitfalls you listed, and since (like you) we are not feminists either, we wanted our women to still be women when we were through. Tolkien managed the balance excellently in his books: the most we could hope for was basic approval from all of you readers and basic satisfaction on our part. So for Findel: no, we _absolutely never intend to try matchmaking with Aragorn and Legolas_, so you may set your mind at ease. We furthermore do not intend for her to imitate Mulan — especially since, in the first place, her desire was to protect Nethtalt from prying eyes with her presence as a *woman*. :) See ya when we see ya!

Staran: Thanks! Read on and we shall tell! ;)

Mercredi: Mm, bright and loud you think? *smiles mysteriously* ;) No, we can't seem to leave the poor guy's shoulders alone, can we? But if we were to go for the chest or the legs, he'd either wind up dead, or at the very least: unable to escape. It's a thorny problem that seems to have no other answer than to stab him in the shoulders… again. ;P Mavranor is more obsessed than insane, if it makes you feel any better, but I'm afraid you don't see as much of her shrewd and clever side in this fic as we might have shown you. As for our stubborn love birds: glad you seem to be enjoying them! As for where Findel went… ;)

Asen: On the subject of Gandalf: THANKS! As for Thorongil, it may help to know that the really blatant torture is pretty much done. I can't promise to avoid minor/major injuries in the line of every day living (Thorongil's version of 'every day living' tends to be pretty painful on average), but I'll try to see about containing Mavranor… *watches knife-wielding lady run past, waving a knife and laughing maniacally* The pertinent word in that sentence being 'try'. :P As for the cardboard: who'd a' thunk? And here I thought *wax* was the best material for crafting wings… ;P Yeah, I know, I need to catch up on all my mythology homework.

w: A very heartfelt thank you on our plot manipulation! Quite a large number of our brainstorming sessions are devoted simply to adjusting the reality of our fics — Sarah: I was awake last night and realized it makes no sense for X to do Y! He'd have just done Z and saved time. Hannah: Well, what if we were to have M get caught with him. Sarah: That'd work, but we'll need someone else to do N if M's going with X. Hannah: (joking) We could beat up O. — which gives you a brief snapshot of a relatively easy to fix blooper; the hard ones generally cause us to lose sleep for a few nights: thrashing the problem to death at 11 pm. :P Needless to say: whenever such things are noticed (let alone appreciated), we're oh-so-happy! :D LOL! Thanks! And such words have ways of attaching themselves to a person's fancy, don't they? ;) No, we're not surprised — we knew that even if we managed to avoid the Mary Sue outcry when we introduced Findel, someone was bound to notice her drift towards the brink at this point. We're grateful you took note of our attempted precautions (that Findel _is not_ a fighter, and that her motivation is understandable), and so far as the rest is concerned: her request to go as camouflage was based on the fact that Nethtalt's diversion will have to be placed in the Southron *civilian* camp, not the military one (and thus the appearance of a lone young soldier might arouse suspicion), and as to whether her request is reasonable, really, we don't suppose it is — but then Findel isn't exactly all grown up and wise-as-a-wizard yet. ;) Hope we keep her sufficiently in the realm of the real as we go! We've tried our best, but we knew it might not come off right even so. Thank you for always mentioning your opinions/concerns nicely! :) Pleased you liked Gandalf's silly explanation! It's actually the same one he gave when Legolas asked him why he didn't help kill the warg at the beginning. :) Last of all (yes, I do intend to zip the lip eventually): So glad our Mavranor/Thorongil stuff went over well; particularly that line of his!! As is usual: make that _Hannah's_ Mavranor/Thorongil stuff — in general we take group credit for our fics and don't bother to specify who wrote what, but some stuff really needs listed by author. :D Over all, you have once again made our morning! Thanks so much! :)

My goodness, will I _never _SHUT UP?? *shakes head over three pages of rambling* Onward we go! :D 

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Thorongil

By Sarah and Hannah (Siri)

(disclaimers, explanations, and summaries 

available at the top of chapter 1)

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Chapter 22

A New Companion

Morning dawned white and clear. Gálmod brought arrows to replace their stores, and paused to calm Espalass, who seemed skittish. The horse twitched from side to side, its head swinging, and eventually went so far as to rear back, pulling its reigns from its master's hands. Gálmod's face pinched with frustration, glaring at the others as if he blamed them for his embarrassment. Legolas was the only one who caught the glance; his own beast, Norleg, stood quietly behind him. Attempting one last time to perhaps bridge the gap that had opened between himself and human, Legolas caught the edgy horse before it could bolt and laid his slender hand on its forehead, whispering soothingly in its twitching ear.

Espalass calmed, but his owner didn't. Catching hold of his animal's reigns as soon as Legolas released them, Gálmod jerked the horse to the side impatiently. Glancing back at the elf, who was still standing in the same place, he asked cuttingly, "If elves are as perfect as legends tell, it seems to me interesting that one could forget something so common as its saddle."

Legolas cringed inwardly, "I do not always use one, and Norleg needs little more than kind handling."

"Amazing," the man said insincerely, and turned away with hunched shoulders.

The elf sighed, his hands hanging loosely by his side, "Perhaps — I suppose it is best that we will not be fighting together." He did not realize he had spoken aloud until another voice responded.

"Do not pay any heed, Legolas." It was Duurben, just bringing Breon from her stall, and scowling at the retreating Rohirrim. "Come, it is time for us to leave."

The elf nodded and mounted as Maerhiin was tethered behind Duurben's saddle.

Thalion embraced his wife and son, instructing Aldor to bring his mother within Medui's walls if battle should come. The boy accepted the responsibility with youthful gravity. Kelegalen finished speaking with Eorwine and Gandalf and mounted Kollnaur, turning about and glancing at the sky. Nethtalt, his hair strangely black about his shoulders and his skin brown, waited a moment longer before mounting, wondering if Findel had returned. Either she had not, or she simply did not wish to say good-bye to him. With a slight shake of his head, he swung into the saddle and turned Bregol to face the gate.

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The plains of the Wold had never looked more vast and their expanses had never seemed so disheartening. Rough piles of black rock, teetering in pillars or rising in mounds, contrasted with the winter-pale green of the grass; the land rolled, peaking and falling away again like rippling water; about their feet grew the larger plants in scattered tufts, yellow-brown like wheat; it was a wild scene, and Legolas could remember his first sight of it — when even he had felt the urge to stand in the middle of it and see nothing but wide land about him. Now he could think only of friend and clutch Norleg's mane in fear that, whenever he found him, it would be too late. Beside him Duurben rode as fiercely as the rest, sparing neither Breon nor himself. The lieutenant also could no longer hide his anxiety and Legolas was struck afresh by the loyalty Thorongil gained in so many.

The others too seemed apprehensive, but this time they weren't standing motionless at the crest of a hill, looking down at the lives of their women and children, unable to take action — now they had a task to do and a task requiring, above all, skill and speed. 

After several hours travel, Legolas caught a breath of wind that brought ill tidings. "We are not alone," he called as quietly as he could. Kelegalen drew his steed, Kollnaur, to a slow trot and turned in the saddle to look at Legolas, listening closely to the wind.

"I hear nothing," Gálmod responded curtly after a moment's silence, though Espalass stamped uneasily beneath him.

"Hear you not the beat of horses hooves?" Legolas asked quietly, and at length Nethtalt and Kelegalen heard it as well.

"It is not common for the Southrons to ride horses," Thalion observed under his breath.

"It draws near!" Legolas called looking up in time to see the horse they had heard approach them over a rise at great speed. 

It was the work of only a moment to take in the rider: small, petite even, with a head of flowing dark hair; but it was the horse that made Nethtalt suddenly let out a groan and urge Bregol up the hill. The steed the rider was seated upon was the ugliest specimen of horse-kind that Legolas had ever laid eyes on. Kelegalen's expression altered, and a moment later Thalion hastened after Nethtalt.

Legolas knew well, as everyone else did, who the rider was a moment before he heard Nethtalt's call. 

"Findel! What are you—did you…Findel—" his face tightened and he was stumbling over his words. The girl drew her horse up and Legolas saw her clearly in the light of the sun. Not only did he find her hair dyed a deep black, but as with Nethtalt her skin had been stained as well. Her eyes were still clearly blue, but she had done her hair in such a way that it shaded her eyes greatly.

Nethtalt gave up on speech and turned instead to the girl's uncle as Kelegalen, Legolas, Gálmod and Stavhold reached the other three. For a moment no one could speak for surprise and then at last Thalion found his voice. 

"Findel my child… what are you doing this far from the fort?"

"I cannot let Nethtalt go alone," her words had a sort of strained desperation to them. "You have said yourself the Southrons had only women and children in the camp! He will be far better disguised if I accompany him; with a woman he will not look conspicuous. Beyond that I pledge you on my life I will do no more unless asked." Her glance shifted pleadingly.

"It will be dangerous," Nethtalt demurred, but he met her eyes and after a moment he let out a breath and turned to Thalion, who was staring piercingly at his niece. 

"You are her guardian, Thalion," Kelegalen said gently. "I feel it might be dangerous to send her back now — with the many Southron scouts that have been deployed; but I will not oppose any decision of yours."

Thalion looked about to respond when Gálmod spoke, "Let the maiden come! Such a spirited one will surely not falter on the mission ahead of us." The archer smiled and inclined his head, but Findel did not seem to mark the gesture.

"Please, Uncle?"

At last Thalion gave a resigned nod, and she sighed in relief.

"But you will stay close to either myself, Kelegalen, or Nethtalt, is that understood?" 

She nodded quickly, anxious to continue on before either her guardian's mind or her own courage gave way, and turned Gailloth to fall into step beside Nethtalt and Bregol. Kelegalen motioned the group onward, though they continued their slow pace for a time to give the horses a rest. Nethtalt's manner, Legolas noticed, was nearly as restless as Espalass' had been before setting out, and the elf tried to put him at ease. When Findel had moved travel beside her uncle instead Legolas fell back until he was level with his friend. 

"Nethtalt," Legolas alerted him causing the young man to jump and turn quickly in the saddle. When he saw Legolas he let out a breath and closed his eyes. "Nethtalt," Legolas said again with a reassuring smile, "no harm can come to her as long as you are with her, I feel certain of that." 

Nethtalt looked up at the elf and after a moment returned the smile wanly, "I thank you Legolas, but that does not check my worry. Have you not felt that sometimes events are simply out of your control," Nethtalt glanced again at Findel, "and that the ones you care about are going to pay for your inability to change the situation?"

Legolas sighed wearily at that and nodded, staring ahead at the path they were traveling.

"More often than I can say," he replied softly.

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The sun was clearing the tree tops, but Harnwe, his tanned skin familiar with the golden rays, welcomed the warmth rather than shunning it. The sole hardship of this green, northern land was the horrible cold. Numbers of common people and soldiers had already fallen ill and died from diseases they had not known existed. Screams had been heard early one morning at the startling appearance of water, turned solid. Some black magic was clearly at the heart of this sorcerous mystery.

Not that these difficulties meant much to the king. They would be sorted out by his underlings and no more said. Chiefly now in his mind lay the plans he had formed for his victory over the barbarian horsemen, and anger at having to accustom himself to a new war beast. His own mûmak, a creature he had ridden since its first day of training, had gone suddenly mad. It had been found dead between its pen and the military camp, having been pierced by arrows through eyes and skull. Harnwe had still not discovered who the slayers of his beast had been; no doubt they were too afraid of his wrath to come forward, though the animal had become worthless even before its demise.

Mavranor likely could have discovered the truth for him, but he did not wish to damage her sudden euphoria by asking her. Better she be left to enjoy her revenge, whatever that might entail.

The selection of a fresh mûmak took several hours, but was finally settled; a dark gray creature, almost black in places, with a fiery spirit. Harnwe smiled grimly when the animal snorted and pulled away from him — such mûmakil were the best in battle, if one could manage them, and the king had been taming these beasts from childhood. 

Not many Southrons used mûmakil in battle as frequently or with such confidence as Harnwe. 

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When at last they reached the place where they would part ways, Kelegalen drew the company to a halt and turned to Duurben and Legolas.

"Farewell, friends, may Ilúvatar speed you on your way; I hope with all my heart that your mission will be a success."

"The same I wish for you, Kelegalen!" Legolas called as the two began to make their way towards the Southron's camp.

Legolas shifted on his horse's back one last time to see the six Rohirrim charge towards their own destination and their own battle.

A grayness had come to the sky and now more than ever Legolas felt the weight of what was about to come upon them and the people of Rohan.

Murmuring a command, the elf sped Norleg forwards to catch up to Duurben.

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"My lord Harnwe, favorable news!" General Fuinur announced as he entered his king's tent, bowing elaborately to his king. "The catapults are now complete, and will soon be gathered at the work field closest to the Great River."

Harnwe's face seemed impassive as he looked over the message his general presented to him. But there was a tremble about his eyes that bespoke his overwhelming eagerness. "It is time. The last stone has been laid and we are ready. Not an hour shall be wasted — have the men been kept in readiness as I ordered?"

"Yes, my liege. But what of General Brerg? He is still in the fort with the Lady Mavranor."

"Aye," Harnwe nodded impatiently, "a messenger will be sent when we set out. He will oversee the crossing of the catapults and lead them to join us — he already knows to expect such a missive. I will take a portion of the army and go south; you will take another portion and go north. The remainder will wait at the fort and come with the catapults. We will need to drive the barbarians to the supposed safety of their walls before we may overthrow them, and the sooner we move, the greater our advantage. Every day we linger grants them time to reinforce their weaknesses."

Fuinur bowed, amazed again at his overlord's incredible intelligence and commanding presence. Here was a fearless man whom a Southron could follow with heart as well as body! Were he to command his men to cast themselves into Orodruin itself, they would gladly obey. Today, blood was almost certain. And Fuinur, now General Fuinur, would be at the forefront; he would take the very fort that had Gwanur had failed to take! No man would be able to stand against him.

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Nethtalt helped Kelegalen cover the final boat with foliage to keep them from being found before turning to silently follow the others. 

"You and Findel will enter the camp from the west side," Kelegalen explained softly as they walked. "As soon as you have created the diversion, move immediately to where they are keeping the catapults. There is a rough stone wall curved against the forest; it creates a large space for them to store their catapults, and we will find them all still there, I hope."

"But that will leave us trapped," Stavhold murmured from beside Findel.

"Nay, if we can hold the entrance in the wall we will not risk attack. They might come behind us through the trees, but by the time this is organized, we should have all the catapults destroyed. We should also have full warning even if they do attempt it; and they will most certainly try an assault on the entrance first. Therefore, as soon as our presence is known, Stavhold and Gálmod will need to protect the opening." Kelegalen waited for affirmation before laying a hand on his son's shoulder, "Make haste my son, but move cautiously." Nethtalt nodded. "And be careful, Nethtalt." The young man nodded again and squeezed his father's shoulder.

"I will." 

He turned and took Findel's hand and the two moved down towards the west boarder of the Southron camp, being sure that no eyes followed them from the sentries.

Kelegalen waited until they melded with a crowd of Southron women and children before he motioned the others to follow him. "I hope these tricks of Gandalf's work," he murmured quietly.

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"Word from the scouts, my lord king."

Thengel looked up from the communiqué in his hand: Eorwine's reassurances that men had been dispatched to destroy the weapons of the enemy. They had been sent out from Medui to see to it but a day before. "What word?" the Rohirrim king asked.

"Ill news, I fear," Bronweg said tonelessly, "the enemy approach. They have divided in two groups, one turning for Medui and the other coming here. Mûmakil are in their train, but no sign has yet been seen of the catapults."

"Then there is yet hope Eorwine's men have succeeded," Thengel murmured. His gray eyes unfocussed as he gazed down at his hands, worn and calloused with the passing of years. So much time, so many struggles. Would he return out of this to ride once more to his home? Or would Morwen wait in vain?

He looked back at his marshal and his glance was now firm and steady. Such dangers were the right and duty of a monarch, and never would he shirk them out of fear. He cast his cloak about his shoulders, obscuring the armor he had taken to wearing daily in case of a sudden attack. "Assemble the men. We will take our stand in the field immediately; the enemy will not be long in coming."

"Aye, sire," Bronweg bowed.

"We will not surrender, Bronweg. Not while the sun rises and sets, and not while I am king." Thengel's eyes glittered in the morning light, and the marshal nodded once. They were agreed.

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Findel glanced warily around at the many Southrons and felt suddenly glad to have Nethtalt's hand over her own. All around her the foreign people moved, speaking rapidly to one another in their native language, going on about the business of working and surviving as best they could — and every so often the two Rohirrim would see another sentry armed with a heavy spear and scimitar. Findel kept her head down as much as possible to hide her eyes, but even then she could not help looking at the camp around her. Also, she was trying to detect a means of escape after she and Nethtalt had set off their diversion. Nethtalt gripped the strap of his shoulder pack tighter than he had meant and Findel squeezed his hand.

"It will be all right," she mouthed to him and the muscles in his face relaxed just slightly. They moved across the camp without incident; anyone who paid them any attention disregarded them soon after and did not hinder their steady progress between the tents.

At last they reached their destination; it was not a terribly well constructed building, but since the blacksmith work was some of the most important to the army right now, it was decently sized and certainly satisfactory for their needs. Glancing inside, Nethtalt saw one old man at work but he only had to wait a moment before the man left the smithy, snapped something to a sentry and moved a good distance away. Quickly stepping inside, Nethtalt felt his heart racing as he pulled Findel inside behind him. 

Dropping the bag from his shoulder he handed it to Findel. "Findel!" he whispered urgently and she nodded once, opening the pack. Nethtalt moved over to the furnace where mettles were smoldered, studying it closely.

*"Remember, my lad, don't be anywhere near it when it is released, don't be anywhere near it at all."* 

Nethtalt remembered the old wizard's words clearly and now it was making his head ache. How would he keep it from going off immediately?

Moving hurriedly, he grabbed two half completed shields from the wall, set them on the anvil, and looked around frantically for something else. His eyes caught sight of a large helmet and he pulled it down.

"Nethtalt!" Findel looked up tensely. He turned and saw that the man was returning. 

"Here Findel!" he called and she handed him the object from his bag. "I just need another minute." But he realized he didn't have one, the man was only a few feet away.

For a moment the girl stood, seemingly unsure of what was to be done, and then to Nethtalt's alarm and without a word of warning, she turned and ran right out the door. Before he could even collect his wits enough to call to her, she had collided full tilt with the smith.

Unprepared for the sudden impact, the older man stumbled backwards and Findel fell to the ground. Nethtalt started up — and at the same moment, Findel bewildered him a second time. Rising to her feet to face the angry Southron, she began repeatedly apologizing in the man's own tongue! With the girl's apologies and the man's angry yells ringing in his ears, Nethtalt quickly rigged up his frame. Placing the two shields in the base of the furnace he lay the helmet in upside-down and put the thing Gandalf had given him inside the helmet until it sat upright. If he remembered correctly, the metal would heat enough to light the diversion, but not for another few minutes. Hearing the row coming to a fevered pitch outside, he quickly took the small fuse attached to the object and laid it across the mettle shield, then ran towards the door as the mettle began to turn crimson. The man was still yelling, but he was in for another surprise as Nethtalt rushed forward and grabbed the apologetic girl, pushing her frantically away through the crowd.

They had gotten half way to the rock wall when there was a great explosion that seemed to shake the whole ground. For a moment both Rohirrim were too shocked to move and came to a halt, only turning around as Southron women screamed.

A brilliant blue light had burst from the forge and as it lit into the sky it took the shape of a gigantic creature that every Southron knew well. A mûmak.

The dazzling light turned and charged through the grass, stampeding down towards the people below, it's tusks dripping flame. It then rounded and slashed across several tents, showering sparks falling from it's great back and setting them on fire. The Southrons broke away from the flaming tents, screaming and running in all directions, terrified of being trampled. Two times the mûmak crossed the camp, then doubled back a third time, charging back over it's original path towards the forge. 

Nethtalt and Findel watched in amazement as the mûmak crashed into the building and let off a sudden brilliant display of fireworks, exploding in the sky and completely destroying the forge altogether. The brilliant colors blinded both for a moment and furthered the chaos among the Southrons who were now either running for the wreck or running in the opposite direction.

Not wasting another moment, Nethtalt quickly led Findel away from the tumult. As soon as they were a good distance away Nethtalt allowed her to slow slightly so that their escape would not be obvious to the people running the opposite direction.

"Where did you learn the Southron tongue?" he asked glancing down at her.

"I didn't," she confessed, breathing heavily, "I only discovered the meaning of that one phrase when we were held captive — decided to remember it just in case."

"It was well remembered," Nethtalt replied and he smiled at her suddenly, she smiled back and for a moment he felt compelled to say something…but this was not the time nor the place to talk and they picked up their speed once more, heading for the stone enclosure.

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TBC…


	23. It would have been the end…

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Sarah is, for this fic at least, the official responder! *cues applause track* :D

EVERYONE: New map!!! Don't run: it's to help you understand who's fighting whom in the upcoming battle. :D

Saige: *hugs saige* We're so glad you made it!! And it's okay, really: better late than never! Thrilled to our sneakers that you're liking Nethtalt so much! :D

Lina: *Sarah is nearly bowled over by the fleeing Nethtalt and Findel* Oh dear. Is absolutely nothing safe here? :P *turns around to see Lina and Legolas bickering* Oh bother. Can no one be calm around here? *Lina's triumphant laughter sends Sarah and Eomer dashing to the left in an effort to avoid Mavranor's demise* AAAAAH!! *pants as Eomer hauls his charge away* This— this fic-writing stuff is about to— about to kill me… Um. So glad you're enjoying it, Lina! Um. I wonder if it wouldn't be safer for Findel, Mavranor and myself if you enjoyed it a little less…? :P :D

Eomer: Tell the Rohirrim that one hundred pounds of chocolate is our final offer. We'd offer them more, except that the bodyguard firm that hired out Chloe's Grimi say they can get us at least twenty-some equally skilled dwarves to protect our threads for only seventy pound of chocolate. Sorry to bring up competition like this, but, well, we have to keep our bargaining edge! We can't have you thinking we're so desperate that we'll pay anything you ask. *dashes off suddenly to intercept Lina, who is chasing Findel around a tree and whooping like and Indian* We're not desperate at all! Really! :D

saber crazy: LOL! Absolutely! Especially on the 'cursed' bit. ;D Legolas will move, don't worry! Really, there's no pleasing you readers as a whole. One minute you say "More Legolas!" and the next minute "More Thorongil!" Alas, the hazards of fic-posting! ;D Will this post make you feel better?

Maranwe: S'okay, there are plenty of people to make friends with in Middle Earth; Gandalf needn't be one of them. ;D Glad the suspense hasn't *quite* done away with you, and yes, you're a good guesser! Thank you! :)

Mouse: *counts Easter eggs to make sure Mouse can't snitch one* 43 exactly! Now then, don't worry: Thorongil's in the next chapter! And glad you liked our tension — nothing like a little friction between allies to make things interesting, eh Legolas? :P

None: Worry not: blatant torture for Legolas is officially at an end! Minor torture… well, it's an unpredictable thing. So thrilled you like Findel!!! :D

Anarril: Yep, you're a great guesser! We would have told you before, but we didn't want to give the chapter away. ;D Kudos too on Thalion: I think we translated it 'dauntless man', but it's practically the same thing. As for Thorongil: Did you miss the part where he told Legolas what his name meant? It was kind of buried in the scene where they caught up on their news. :)

Gwyn: *glances warily at the semi-macabre reader until she realizes that, um, she'd be wanting the same thing* Heh heh. Well, I can't make any promises, since I don't actually remember whether we didn't anything dastardly to him or not — I'll have to ask Hannah — but I'm pretty sure he at least gets hit with something at some point or other… ;P Good guess on Findel! :D

reginabean: Glad you approved of the fireworks and, um… *glances at reginabean puddle* … and liked the chocolate! ;D

w: It's okay, we really don't mind if you don't like Findel! Just so long as she's disliked on account of what she is (rather rash) and not what she is not (a Mary Sue — at least we hope not). Thanks for the praise of her actions, nonetheless! Glad that came off well. :D I think Legolas _knew_ (brain-wise) that Galmod would be ungrateful, but still hoped (heart-wise) that he'd be able to change the man's mind. Maybe illogical, maybe not — such a scene could be interpreted either way, I suppose. And you weren't whining. ;) Forgot to mention last time: Thank you for the grand compliment on our vocabulary (demurred in particular)! Product of too much reading, and a favorite game of Hannah's: "Hey Sarah, I was looking up suchandso in the dictionary and guess what _else_ I found!" ;D As usual: boundlessly pleased that you like Duurben so much!! :D Ditto too on Stavhold: especially because you seem to have remembered everything about him! He was rather obscure in the last story, but he's a much more interesting character if his history is taken into account. :) Glad the comparison between our lead kings came through — we weren't sure if it would because we didn't want to spend too much time on it. Last of all: A grateful grin on the notice paid to our fireworks!! Oh yes, and I had a good laugh on the notion of taking bets! As it happens, we only have two deaths for the _whole fic_, therefore, with the earlier perishing of Meldir, there is only one slot left to be filled, but if you wish to submit your guesses anyway, that's fine by us! ;D

Another tiny-bit-longer-than-usual post! :)

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Thorongil

By Sarah and Hannah (Siri)

(disclaimers, explanations, and summaries 

available at the top of chapter 1)

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MAP: _See Siri's bio_

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Chapter 23

'It would have been the end…'

A large trumpet, carved from the lower tusk of a mûmak, bellowed across the lines of waiting Haradrim. Their golden armor glittered dangerously, and their turbans were wound in red cloth, like blood. Forward they marched as a single body, the mûmakil lumbering in their midst like large islands, and they strove to stay out of the paths of the creatures. At the head of the army rode Harnwe on his fresh mûmak, his own armor twice the magnificence of any below him in command. Rubies shone from his saber hilt, and the point of his spear was pure gold. From his neck there hung chains of precious metals and gems, and about his head a turban of fiery silk hid the finely wrought helmet that protected him. Above his head, draped from a tall framework, there floated his standard in the cold winter winds.

As he had when he first entered the Brown Lands many days before, he crested the final rise and paused to gaze beyond it. But behold! The lands he espied were neither barren nor empty. As far as his eye could pierce lay lands rich with the promise of beauty in spring, grazing in summer. And in front of him lay the sole obstacle of his victory — if obstacle it could indeed be named. The small army of Thengel, King of Rohan.

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Inside Medui, all was chaos. At the first word of approaching battle, the villagers had left their homes behind the fort and urgently requested shelter. These refugees carried with them more baggage than could be realistically stowed, and for a time jangling nerves and short tempers tangled about each other in the court yard until the matter nearly came to blows. Eorwine was not present, but was rather outside the fort already, overseeing the ordering of his men. Gandalf, however, had been smoking in the guard house, and he came stalking out, his pipe still in hand, and a strange cloud of colored smoke clinging unnaturally about him as if by magic. The old man muttered something and waved a hand and the strange smoke dispersed in time for him to catch hold of the chain mail and collar, respectively, of the two dissidents.

"Now then, let's have none of that!" the wizard rumbled. "Absolutely not. Now, of course, if there is scarcely room for you, then there is no room for your pigs. A child could easily grasp that much, and have done so, for that matter." Here he cast a pointed glance at a lad and his mother standing nearby with naught but a satchel of food and three blankets between them. The man's eyes darted about and he seemed finally to grasp the unseemliness of the conflict. Without another word he nodded and turned aside to drive his livestock back to their pens outside the fort.

The people began to move again, like crowded ants, bustling to find a sheltered corner. At the center of the maelstrom, Gandalf returned placidly to his pipe, unconscious of the incongruity.

"Sir?" The boy who had caught the wizard's eye was standing anxiously before him.

"Yes, my lad," Gandalf smiled genially, his gruff manner softening in a way that put the boy at ease. "What is your name?"

"Aldor, son of Thalion, sir, and this is my mother, sir, Rokhiell. She needs, sir — that is, I need to —" the boy seemed increasingly nervous at the numbers of people pressing round him.

"The guard house should suit you." Gandalf suggested calmly, resting a hand on the lad's shoulder and pointing with his pipe's mouthpiece. "Most are taking shelter in the stables, but as your mother is the wife of a member of the éored, I expect it will do."

"Thank you!" Aldor gasped, wondering if the wizard had read his mind. "I'll—I'll take my mother there at once."

"Do so. And be careful, Aldor son of Thalion."

/ (o) \ (o) / (o) \ (o) / (o) \ (o) / (o) \ (o) / (o) \

Outside of Medui all was deceptively still. In the distance could be clearly heard the tramp of enemy feet and the bellows of the mûmakil. The ears of the horses, more attuned than those of their riders, pricked forward anxiously as the animals began to sense the size of the approaching enemy. Along the line, a few mounts shifted uneasily in their places, and a soft whiny marked the tension that was felt by all.

"Hush," Eorwine murmured softly to his horse, and sighed. Likely this would be his last day upon the plains he knew so well. He readjusted his grip on his spear.

And over the rise there appeared a line, broken only by the mountainous humps of the war beasts.

/ (o) \ (o) / (o) \ (o) / (o) \ (o) / (o) \ (o) / (o) \

Legolas drew his horse to a halt and Duurben reigned Maerhiin and Breon in behind him. The ruins of Tulganif were just before them and only the slight cover of the foliage and rocks hid them. 

The camp was constructed of tents, some strung up against pieces of the fort which rose from the ground like jagged teeth. They gave the entire atmosphere a foreboding feel. Legolas silently counted what sentries his keen eyes could spy. They seemed to be keeping mainly to the outer edges and though it would be hard to enter the camp, he had hopes that they would be able to do so unnoticed. 

"We will approach on foot," Legolas instructed after a moment, dismounting his horse and fastening Norleg's lead to a small tree. Duurben did the same. It did not much matter how tightly they were tied; both man and elf knew the beasts would remain where they were placed.

Occasionally crawling along on their hands and knees, two moved silently towards the camp. When they were very near its borders, Legolas indicated that Duurben should wait before moving any further forward. Treading silently, he reached a chunk of wall that was positioned a safe distance from the first row of tents, and nodded when the sentries pace did not come near enough to notice him. Duurben was quick to follow and the elf waited until the man was again beside him.

"How will we know where he is?" Duurben whispered, glancing quickly around the broken piece of stone wall.

Legolas turned to him briefly before looking out at the camp again. "First I am going to scout around and see if I can find a prison tent."

"Prison tent?" Duurben frowned.

"Yes, these Southrons fashion their tents to be identifiable from without." He gestured to their right then to their left, "There are the guard tents and that one must be the tent of a high official."

"Are you sure you know exactly what their prison tents look like?" Duurben looked doubtful as he studied the different tents camped around the ruins, obviously not knowing himself. 

To this Legolas gave a humorless smile. "I know," he responded simply. 

The man of Gondor accepted that response and again they slipped along, keeping to the outskirts of the camp. The Southrons had built their camp inward from where the fort's far north wall had been, but it overlapped the south wall, like two boxes of equal shape offset from each other. This worked to the two companions' advantage, for it meant that there were always pieces of broken wall to hide their stealthy progress; still, they had to be swift to avoid the watchful eyes of the sentries. To their good fortune the two were not easily noticed — Legolas' elven tread was completely silent, and Duurben, though a man, had long possessing the ability to move with care. Their faces were tense with concentration, nonetheless, and the absolute pertinence of avoiding their own capture was enough to keep their pace hushed and their presence unknown.

After skirting a good ways around the perimeter, Legolas drew back behind a particularly high wall, it's stones literally crumbled from whatever had hit them; Duurben followed. 

"Alas, though I have sighted our destination, it lies at the very heart of the camp. The only cover afforded us is that it is built against the stable, and the wall shields one side of the tent." Legolas gestured towards the place and Duurben saw it for himself. It was indeed at the heart of the camp and reaching it without apprehension would be a virtually impossible feat. He let out a breath before returning his attention to the elf.

"We will have to make for it at a run," he shrugged. "There is too much risk if we go slowly for the sake of remaining unnoticed."

"We dare not attempt such a charge," Legolas shook his head slightly. "If we can get past the first line of tents we should not be seen by the sentries as they only patrol the boarders, but there is a remainder of the southwest tower directly in our path to the tent; we would be sighted for sure."

Duurben saw the tower he spoke of, it looked on the verge of falling in on itself and was much closer to the ground then it had likely been before, yet a lone sentry stood behind its ramparts, pacing slowly and keeping a careful watch on the ground below, and Duurben knew the elf was right. "There is but one sentry, Legolas," Duurben murmured, turning back to the elf, "and what other chance have we?"

Legolas looked again at their path to the tent: what if the tent was not the one they sought? Their element of surprise would then be forfeit, possibly taking with it Thorongil's only chance of escape. The broken tower stood slightly aside their path and Legolas had no doubt that the sentry would make their presence known the moment they were seen.

"Wait," Duurben said suddenly, interrupting Legolas' thoughts. "If I were to run to the tower so as to draw his attention to myself, then could you not fell him by arrow close to where you stand?" Legolas sighted along the distance before nodding slowly.

"Yes, I believe I could, Duurben, but you must be wary not to be seen by the border sentries."

Duurben nodded quickly, "Only let us hasten." 

At a nod from Legolas, Duurben ran quickly down and across the camp, ducking his head and moving on silent feet. For a time his presence was unnoticed, but, as predicted, the sentry on the low tower quickly caught sight of the man and quickly drew close to the crumbling ramparts, hurling down his spear. Leaping from concealment, Legolas aimed an arrow directly for the man and released it, watching as it brought the man crashing forward, his body smashing through the crumbling stone and down towards the ground. 

Legolas saw the danger a second before it came down upon Duurben's head. The sentry and most of the broken rock had fallen nearly twenty paces away from Duurben, but a loosened rock fell straight down to strike the man on the right side of his scull, slamming him abruptly to the ground.

Legolas flinched before cautiously crossing the distance. Their attack had not been a silent as he would have had it, but fortunately the other sentries were too far from the tower to perceive the struggle that had taken place.

Quickly the elf checked the man's pulse, thankful it was still beating strongly, but recognizing that the soldier was most certainly unconscious. Legolas shook his head as he hastily lifted the man and dragged him to the side, searching for a place to hide him. All the while he was watchful for some sign that the camp had been aroused. 

He found a tent close by that was not in use and looked and smelled as though it hadn't been in a while. He placed the soldier there, hoping worriedly that nothing would happen in his absence, and then quickly hid the fallen sentry and debris as best he could. None had seen him, but he knew this was only temporary.

When he had only a few more paces to the tent, he pressed his back against the tower, waiting for the right moment. He had just begun to rush for the tent, when he was forced to pull up short, as if he had struck a wall. A man was just leaving the tent. He did not see Legolas and seemed much occupied in his own mind, but Legolas knew it was Brerg — and on the man's his sleeves Legolas could clearly see the stains of blood. The elf gripped the side of the stone tower as he felt a wave of rage wash through him and the moment the man disappeared behind another broken wall, Legolas ran straight for the tent.

/ (o) \ (o) / (o) \ (o) / (o) \ (o) / (o) \ (o) / (o) \

The horsemen drove down the field like a straight line of arrows, the hooves of their animals beating the ground with a noise like thunder. With a titanic crash, the enemy came to meet them, and the line was broken, some men meeting their foes early and halting to fight, others driving on until the enemy was all about them.

Thengel rode out as well, but was not permitted by Bronweg to go forward with the first sortie. The marshal knew full well that if his king were to fall, the men would be unable to draw a victory from the conflict.

A Rohirrim soldier rode swiftly through a gradually clearing path between his own army and the enemy, firing arrows into the ranks, and upwards at one of the great beasts. Several shots went wide, or did not effect the mûmak, but one at least found a mark in its red eye, and the monster swerved aside, trumpeting and crushing. A moment later, a Southron on foot hurled a spear that pierced the heart of the soldier's horse and the man was thrown down and killed by the Southron's scimitar.

Minutes later, another Rohirrim attempted the same feat and managed to put out the mûmak's other eye, only to be crushed when the monster fell. Along the line, horses whinnied in terror and dropped with their riders like flies, but not without inflicting damage.

Harnwe glared in pure hatred as one of his mûmakil collapsed, and he drove his own beast in amongst the ranks of the Rohirrim, but the horses were too swift to be trampled so easily, and the mûmak began to stumble as the horsemen drove spears at its knees as they passed underneath it. In danger of being thrown, Harnwe pulled back and ordered a fresh wave of his men to attack, driving them over the many bodies of their own dead to slay the golden-haired barbarians.

Thengel watched the enemy come, and then halt as his own men met them. Come again, disregarding loss and injury, and be halted again. And now they were coming a third time, and Thengel was forced to acknowledge as he watched his men remount, or fight on foot if their horses had been slain, that they could not long hold the field against such an onslaught.

/ (o) \ (o) / (o) \ (o) / (o) \ (o) / (o) \ (o) / (o) \

__

No one was coming to my aid

And I still was so afraid…

Tell you the truth, for me

It would have been the end

Lucky for me 

I had a friend

— Artist Unknown

/ (o) \ (o) / (o) \ (o) / (o) \ (o) / (o) \ (o) / (o) \

Thorongil felt pain no more. It ran too deeply through him, it was too much a part of him to be noted any longer. He just concentrated on breathing and staying conscious. He knew the moment he collapsed, it would be the signal to his tormenters to summon the queen, else he might not live long enough to be her blood prize. 

Thorongil's eyes were swollen, though not as bad as they could have been. He knew that his chest had faired far worse, he was not aware of any broken ribs, but it throbbed as though a mûmak had trampled him. Another blow in his chest caused the man to jolt and let out a hoarse moan. He had no doubts that they meant to kill him soon, he simply could not hold up against this abuse much longer. 

"You still refuse to speak," Brerg's voice throbbed painfully in Thorongil's head which had been badly beaten during the interrogation. He heard the man give a scornful grunt before the next words beat upon him. "This one won't last the night. One more blow to the head would finish him, I think. I will inform the Lady Mavranor." Thorongil felt his breath threaten to fail him; he heard his heartbeat slowing, warning him that it would soon stop altogether; but if the Lady Mavranor had her way, it would stop beating only at the whim of her knife.

Thorongil shut his eyes; he knew that he would not live long and he did not fear death, but he couldn't help feeling that he should not give up hope. Something continued urging him to hold on a little longer. 

A little longer.

But no. Even now he heard the echoing sound of the tent opening once more to admit the Lady, and he knew that he would not live. 

A sharp cry, like something wounded, reached his ears. He tried to look up and see what had made the sound, but the world churned around him as he moved his head. He heard another exclamation, this time in a different tongue, and felt someone crouch before him. Desperately he tried again to focus on what he was seeing and then, concentrating until his head pounded, he managed to make out the face that swam before him.

His heart leapt and even in his pain he felt his strength returning. "Legolas," he whispered — though only half of it came out.

The elf's eyes were deep with concern but he smiled slightly in relief to find his friend still alive and quickly severed the offensive bonds holding his friend captive. Thorongil felt suddenly weak without support and fell forward, but Legolas caught him easily and lifted him to his feet. Thorongil staggered, unable to hold himself upright unaided.

"Easy my friend," Legolas whispered softly. "I must get you out of here." 

The captain was struck with a brief sense of reversed dè ja vú , but it past quickly and he made an effort to move in the direction his friend was leading him. To his surprise, Legolas lifted the back edge of the tent instead of leaving by way of the opening.

"Before Brerg returns," Legolas explained softly. The elf slid out first and was immediately confronted by the wall the tent was held against. Moving swiftly, Legolas groped under the tent and grabbed Thorongil under the arms, pulling the man after him. A choked cry was strangled off as the rough ground tore at his shoulder wounds, but Legolas hurriedly pulled him back and held the man against his chest, having only just enough space for them between the tent and the wall.

They were not a moment too soon. Legolas clearly heard the sound of approaching footsteps, and despite his friend's badly injured state, the man tensed beneath his grip. He heard the murmuring exclamation of surprise from Brerg and then a high, blood-chilling, enraged scream issued from the tent as the Lady Mavranor found her quarry had been wrenched from her grasp. 

"Find him!" she ordered, her voice rising even higher. "Find him and bring him back!"

/ (o) \ (o) / (o) \ (o) / (o) \ (o) / (o) \ (o) / (o) \

Horses. Men. Spears. Scimitars. All tangled together in a horrible mess of blood and neighing horses. A mûmak trumpeted loudly over all, stumbling slightly as a dip in the ground opened beneath one of its feet. It leaned to the side as it tried to right itself and men tumbled from the platform on its back, falling to their deaths into the mass of roiling bodies below. The monster rumbled on, unchecked and without a master.

Eorwine guided his men in short attacks, never meeting the enemy full on, but only coming within spear-throwing range and then falling away again before a counterattack could be made by the Southrons. This prevented some loss, but also allowed General Fuinor a greater control of the battle field and the Southron took full advantage of it.

Holding back a large portion of his men, he waited until Eorwine had brought his horses in for another quick attack, and then released them. Eorwine caught the wave of men full on and was driven back nearly to Medui's walls. The Rohirrim floundered, pressed as they were between stone and scimitar, and fought madly to regain maneuvering space, but Fuinor knew better than to give it them. With their horses immobilized, they could no longer sting his army as they had been doing.

It was sooner than Eorwine would have liked, but he did not waste time lingering over his decision. "Fall back!" he cried. "Fall back to the fort! Every man to the gate!"

Withdrawing from their skirmishes all along the fort's face, they swung their beasts to the side, catching their unhorsed companions up on behind them and galloping hard around the fort to where the gate now stood open. The Southrons gave out a cry and pursued them, following hard at their heals on foot and upon mûmakil.

As the horsemen thundered through the gate, the enemy made a violent endeavored to follow them in — slashing with scimitar and spear; eager to take the fort without the aid of the coming catapults.

"Bolt the gate!" Eorwine cried, "Bolt the gate!" But the enemy had swarmed too thickly about it, and prevented it from being closed. Several men slipped in and were only just slain by the rapidly dismounting Rohirrim.

Inside the guard house, Aldor grabbed his mother's elbow and pushed her into a corner, his eyes wide with terror at the sounds just beyond the wall. Catching up his bow with trembling fingers, he remembered his boast that he would someday shoot as well as Legolas. He wished the elf were present. Better still, his father. Rokhiell pulled a dagger from their food bundle and crouched low as her son took a shaky position in front of her, shielding her with his lanky body if nothing else.

"Aldor," she whispered, attempting to make him sit, "don't—"

With a sudden slam, the door sprang open and a figure lurched in from the mêlée. A heartbeat of observation showed Aldor the gold armor, dark beard, and strangely wrapped headdress. His body tightened in fear and without thinking, he released the arrow he had strung.

Dazed and horror-struck as he was, his mind did not track the flight of the projectile, and so for a moment he was confused as an arrow seemed to suddenly appear between the Southron's eyes. Rokhiell gasped and endeavored to pull him back, but a strange feeling seemed to wash over him. Darting forward before another enemy could enter, he thrust the Southron's body out into the courtyard, and slammed the door, barring it firmly. Walking back, he picked up his bow with hands that no longer trembled and drew another arrow; and this he did not lay aside until the noise without ceased.

Eorwine dismounted, drawing his sword and joining the fray as the Southrons continued to thrust their way inside. Time and time again his weapon flashed, bringing down still more of the enemy, but all their bodies seemed to do was wedge the gate still harder open, and the Southrons were not dissuaded.

"Back, Eorwine, I must have room!" Gandalf came shoving through the Rohirrim, his staff in one hand and a brilliant blade in his other. It rang as he fought his way through, and though he had discarded his hat, the wizard seemed suddenly taller.

The Rohirrim fell back, leaving the rapidly widening gap to Gandalf, and without taking time to sheath his bloody sword, the wizard brought his staff up and muttered something in a language that Eorwine did not understand. There was a sharp crack, as of lightening, and a sheet of blue flame seemed to slam forward from where the wizard stood. The flame reached the encroaching Southrons like a wave, bodily lifting them and hurling them back. It was as if a great wind accompanied the blast — for even the bodies of the slain were hurled clear of the gate — and the wizard's long gray beard was blown back over his shoulder.

With a second word, the gate was slammed to with a crash, and the wizard laid his gnarled hands on the heavy beams. For a moment longer he muttered, as if to himself, and then struck the gate once with his staff. Then he seemed to sag just slightly and, wiping his sword clean, he sheathed it and walked away, murmuring to Eorwine in passing, "There is a shutting spell on the gate — they shall not enter that way — but look to your east wall and quickly. The robbed man is often a desperate one."

****

TBC…


	24. Down Into Conflict

****

Hello, my name is Sarah. *snort* :P

Amanda: Sorry I missed ya! So glad you're enjoying this!! :D

Gwyn: Don't worry: morbidity is common amongst Aragorn/Legolas fans. ;D Yes, Thorongil rubs off on everyone he meets and Duurben is no exception. We're glad you're liking him!! :) And we felt it was about time for the ranger to limp a bit. Thanks for your approval! ;)

None: Gandalf's a bit busy at the moment, but we'll see what we can do… ;D Thanks!

Lil'layah: *hides behind chair* Sorry! Um. This is sort of the climax, you know — only six chapters left after this one — and what kind of authors would we be if we just sort of rattled off: Legolas saved Thorongil, Duurben survived, the Rohirrim beat the Southrons, and everybody went home; the end. You'd all be after our blood! And not just in our sleep. ;D Thank you so much on behalf of Aldor! He stands as another character that sort of worked his way into the fic when our back was turned. I like to think he lived on to participate in the battle of Helm's Deep — and survive, of course. :D

Mouse: Thank you on Aldor! He likes to be liked. ;D And yes, I'm afraid I must admit: we do like making things hard for him. But we don't like making them utterly impossible either, so have our Easter Eggs ready, kay?

saber crazy: Yeah, 'glomping' does sound painful. :{ ROTFLOL! Obi's law — that's great!! *notices saber staring at her* Um, I really like the Murphy's Law books. They provide just the sort of sarcastic, pessimistic humor that always makes me crack up. I never really thought about how applicable they were to our favorite tortured heroes, though… I suppose Aragorn's law would be: Anyone who might have a desire to get revenge on you WILL. :P

Maranwe: YES! Speaking as the person who generally writes the 'epic battle scenes' they are *very* hard, and I'm generally dissatisfied with them, or nervous about them. Still, they seem to keep working their way into our fics… ;P Mostly we just write Gandalf and keep our fingers crossed, though we do try to limit ourselves to smallish things when inventing new abilities for him, and otherwise use ones that have been already used by Tolkien in one form or other (appearing when needed, using fireworks, putting a shutting spell on the gate, etc.). Generally we try to keep Gandalf from becoming infallible — in spite of his ring and Maiar status — but as it is never stated explicitly where his skills end, it gets tricky. :) Thanks on Legolas and Thorongil! We always prefer them that way ourselves, in spite of the fact that they seem to be constantly getting split up in this fic… :P Funny you should mention the catapults! Stay tuned. ;) Chapter titles either come all in a flash (like 'A Warg in Wizard's Clothing'), are summaries of the contents of the chapter (like 'Brown Lands and Bad Nights'), are taken from a new character, or a line in the chapter (like 'Findel' or 'Oliphaunt Am I'), or else they are last minute decisions made by the authors when they realize they need to start posting and don't have time to concoct anything interesting or original (like 'Friend and Foe'). :) It's okay — we really don't mind questions! :D And our chapters don't seem so short anymore?? Whoa. Kewl! Wonder how long that will last…? ;D May as well enjoy it while we can!

Staran: *bows* Thankyousomuch! :D

Lina: *sighs and Lina slaps the wizard* Sorry, Gandalf — we ought to have warned you, but she's a little unpredictable at times… :P *Eorwine goes running past, the Southrons accurately on his heels* Eorwine: Yeah, no kidding!! :D LOL! Sorry, but that was a particularly vivid mental picture you gave us there: if I came suddenly out of unconsciousness to find a huggle-ready you, I might yell too! ;D *hugs Lina anyway* As for Mavranor… *sigh* Mayhaps it would be cheaper to lock her in the closet than to try to keep her protected. Not that Eomer's doing a bad job, but I think this assignment might be wearing on him — not to mention his horse… *glances surreptitiously at the head of the thread-protection crew*

Eomer: Ya know, cussing really gets you nowhere. An extra large supply of handcuffs: now *that* might actually be useful! Sorry if your men are feeling grudging, but let's face it: we don't have the reader clientele of some of the really good stories (i.e. anything Cassia/Sio write), and we just can't afford any more! FanEconomy is really a monster just now. ;D We hope you realize that your extra work has been both noted and appreciated immensely! Yours, etc., Sarah and Hannah p.s. we hope your horse is okay.

Saige: Okay? Sure it will be okay! Everything will be okay! Eventually… ;) Did we *really* keep you in suspense? Cool! I mean, er, sorry? :D Thank you so much!

w: Firstly: an extra special thank you on both the battle scenes and the benefit of a doubt! On the former: you know how we are (and especially *I* am) about battle scenes and wanting them to live up to their names. On the latter: our explanations would have likely been about the same as yours (fewer rocks, fewer people, bigger distance between guards, etc.); thank you for allowing us to fudge a little bit! :D Legolas crawling *is* a rather interesting mental picture, isn't it? Heh, blame Hannah. Ditto for poor Thorongil, though blaming *Mavranor* might be preferred in that instance. ;D Ooh, and I'm so glad you liked Eorwine! It continues to amaze me how many characters are already living in a fic when you begin writing it and what ways/times they choose to appear; needless to say, Eorwine was one of them. And yes, I liked him, so I wanted someone else to appreciate him as well! He's just so refreshingly pessimistic. :P We're glad Aldor was able to redeem himself! Don't worry: everyone has their pet peeves in fan fiction — mine are female elven healers — and the fact that he was able to come around to be a favorite moment for you is all the more gratifying because you didn't like him originally. :) My goodness, Gandalfy is really becoming a word for you, isn't it? *smiles brightly* S'okay, it's becoming a compliment for us! :D As for the raging debate of 'who will bite the dust'… I can't say. ;)

Now then, I must run! Our play performances are looming on the horizon and I'll probably be pressed for time over the next couple of posts. I shall make a valiant effort not to fall behind, but if I fail, you'll know Hannah and I are on a stage somewhere making idiots out of ourselves! ;D

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/ (o) \ (o) / (o) \ (o) / (o) \ (o) / (o) \ (o) / (o) \

****

Thorongil

By Sarah and Hannah (Siri)

(disclaimers, explanations, and summaries 

available at the top of chapter 1)

/ (o) \ (o) / (o) \ (o) / (o) \ (o) / (o) \ (o) / (o) \

****

Chapter 24

Down Into Conflict

Nethtalt and Findel reached the stone enclosure at last to find that, true to their hopes, every Southron had abandoned his post for the supposed greater danger of a loose mûmak. 

The young man quickly pulled his companion into the enclosure and found his father standing quite near. "Quickly," Kelegalen whispered, handing Nethtalt his travel sack. "The wizard's magic will aid us for a time, but we must not linger." Nethtalt looked around, taking in the many catapults they must destroy, and let out a long breath; how could they hope to destroy so many?

"Kelegalen," Stavhold hissed, "they must have hid more catapults elsewhere. We only have enough to destroy a portion of what they have here. Albeit the larger portion; but we will have to find another way to destroy those that remain."

Kelegalen gave a nod, his face grim, "You and Gálmod must get to your post, we will be apprehended before long, I am sure." Nethtalt grabbed his sack from Kelegalen and ran to the catapults sitting on the far left; Findel moved with him.

"Give me a task, Nethtalt! The danger will be no less for me if I stand idle, and I may be of some use." Nethtalt did not have time to answer, except by handing her one of Gandalf's devices from his sack. The objects resembled spheres, though they were pronged at the base so they could stick them into the ground. 

Nethtalt lit the fuse with flint and steel then quickly pulled Findel back. The titanic explosion was simultaneous with an explosion across the enclosure and they knew Kelegalen had lit his own. The catapults burst into flame, sending shards of debris skyward. Clearly the wizard had devised them this way so as to keep the saboteurs safe.

"Here they come!" Stavhold called, drawing out his close combat blade and holding his spear high, Gálmod brought his bow up and drew an arrow, notching it firmly. 

Kelegalen nodded and he moved down the line to the next catapult. This explosion was simultaneous with both Nethtalt's and Findel's as well as Thalion's and they all knew that every Southron in the camp had heard it. 

Nethtalt turned his gaze over his shoulder in time to see the Southrons charging the enclosure in a confused mass. He heard them yelling orders in their own tongue, and drawing out their long scimitars.

"Nethtalt!" Findel called and he turned quickly back to her, lighting the third catapult. The explosion rocked the earth, filling it with red smoke. Another explosion as Thalion destroyed another of the war machines, and blue smoke mingled with the red. 

At the entrance Gálmod leased two arrows in a row and both found their mark. Stavhold was forced to remain inactive until the enemy was directly upon them, but he did not need to wait long.

The Southrons were on them in an instant slashing at the two defenders with reckless intensity, but though this made them fierce it also made them careless, Stavhold brought two down with his spear, slashing the throat of one who tried to get past him. Gálmod leased his next arrow straight into the eye of one, then sent a second arrow into the heart of the next. 

The Southrons still tried to break their ranks, but the two defenders stood firm against the onslaught. Another explosion shook the ground beneath their feet and Stavhold gripped his spear tightly; the blade in his other hand slid against the sweat of his palms but he shifted his hold and it steadied. 

At last the Southrons realized their original attack was not strong enough and they fell back for a moment to regroup. Stavhold felt a twinge of fear in his heart, he knew that with their groups reinforced and order restored, they would not be so easy to defeat. Sweat began to trail into his one eye, and he felt his heart beat fiercely with adrenaline…but a moment later he shook his head and clamped his elbow against his side, his spear held tightly to him, just as the warriors began to charge once again.

/ (o) \ (o) / (o) \ (o) / (o) \ (o) / (o) \ (o) / (o) \ 

Before long, the battle reached even the rear of the Rohirrim and Thengel's personal guard were the only ones about him in a raging sea of crimson and green. The king's face hardened into an expression of grim satisfaction as he brought up his spear and caught the first attacker full in the chest with its finely honed point. He would not be idle this day.

Bronweg lost track of his king as the Rohirrim for a time fragmented — pieces of the line driving ahead of the others, or falling back in a misguided attempt to stay in formation. Rapidly, the marshal drove through the fray, his horses hooves pounding over the uneven ground as he tried to pull the men together. Out of the writhing mass of bodies, a hand caught at his saddle. A more daring Southron, incapable of catching the swift horsemen on foot, had pulled himself up behind Bronweg and now locked his arms around the marshal's throat. Bronweg caught the aroma of something, perhaps a sort of scented oil, and the stink of human sweat as the Southron pulled back, attempting to break his neck, and then his air was cut off and he began to choke.

The horse neighed loudly and bucked, resenting the extra weight of a second body, and Bronweg had not the breath to calm it, nor the strength to hold it steady. With a snort, the animal reared, spinning around as it dropped its forefeet again, and swinging its head back as if to strike its rider from its back with its head.

The Southron grunted something in his own language, loosing one arm to keep his balance on the frightened animal — which he was unaccustomed to riding — and at the same time Bronweg released his hold on the reigns, gripping with his knees in the manner of the Rohirrim archers. Reaching over and behind him, he caught the Southron's head and cracked it sharply against the back of his own. Unprotected, the Southron's nose was broken upon the marshal's helmet and the shock of the blow ruined his balance completely. For a moment longer, the browned hands clutched at Bronweg's mail shirt, and then the enemy fell away and Bronweg road on, waving his instructions to the men now that his throat was too sore to yell.

Thengel caught sight of the marshal in the distance, rallying the far end of the line, and he drove his sword downwards almost without thought upon another Southron. His spear had been broken accidentally by one of his own guards when the enemy had pressed too closely about to clearly tell which weapon sprang from which hand. The erring guard now fought on his lord's left, trying to protect the flank of the group. One moment, Thengel's eye passed over him to watch for the approach of one of the fearsome mûmakil, and the next the king felt something strike his leg and turned to see the man fall from his saddle, a spear sunk half its length in his stomach. He hit the ground head first and was dead instantly, his horse shying away from his body in fear and confusion.

Thengel swung aside to avoid the fallen soldier, and parried a blow from a low swinging scimitar. Another blow and the enemy fell to be trampled by the unmanned horse. Another scimitar and Thengel struck beneath it, his sword glancing off the armor. The Southron swung again, screaming a battle cry, and the king brought his sword down upon the soldier's scull. The heavily wrapped turban deadened the blow, and the helmet underneath deflected it completely. His body already swinging to the side with the momentum of the blow, Thengel was unable to parry the Southron's second strike. A fiery pain ran from his leg throughout his body as the scimitar cut a great slash across his thigh. For a single moment the king faltered and the look on the Southron's face became triumphant, and then there was the thud of impact, and a silver point appeared in the center of the soldier's chest. He fell forward, revealing the rest of the spear protruding like a mast from his back. Thengel's guard closed even more closely about the king as his rescuer came along beside him.

It was Bronweg. For a moment he caught his king's eyes, and Thengel saw there the haunted fear of what might have occurred if the marshal had stayed away a moment longer. Then Bronweg gestured outwards mutely. The men were once more assembled and at his command.

/ (o) \ (o) / (o) \ (o) / (o) \ (o) / (o) \ (o) / (o) \

Legolas pulled Thorongil quickly to his feet, hoping that his friend could gain his strength enough for flight. The man made a valiant effort, but he faltered.

"Come my friend, we must move quickly."

Thorongil nodded, but flinched slightly as he did. "I am ready." 

The last thing the elf wished to do was press his friend, but he knew they must make haste. He pulled the human around from the wall of the tent and mapped out their escape. The only chance they had was to get to their horses, which meant they must leave the way they had come. Quickly supporting Thorongil as much as he could he pushed them both towards crumbling watch tower. They gained it only just too late; a Southron gave a shout and Legolas turned in time to see a group of them running towards the two escapees. The elf quickly dropped his friend down against the wall and Thorongil was forced to press his stinging back against the dusty stones to keep from falling completely to the ground. He looked up as Legolas drew out his bow. It would be a struggle to escape, and the elf knew it.

"Legolas," Thorongil hissed softly, "escape now; it is what I would have you do, for I am no help to you and their numbers are many."

"No," Legolas said, leaving no room for argument. "I will not leave you, nor will I let another friend be slain on my account." Legolas turned briefly to face the man. "You cannot force me." He smiled defiantly and Thorongil knew it was no use and nodded.

"Thank you, my friend," he whispered. Any further conversing was immediately impossible as Brerg's men gathered about them. Legolas did not wait for them to group in any form but sent leased two arrows at once: the strength of his shots each piercing through their targets and wounding men behind them. His keen marksmanship at such close range gave him an advantage and he wasted not a single arrow still as they charged him. Such methods would serve him only so long.

When at last the combat finally drew too close for his bow, Legolas fell back on his knives: meeting each as they came with a blade and soon slaying or wounding half their number. Determination drove him on, determination to escape them, to get his friend away from his tormentors. He would fight to the end, whatever end he must meet.

/ (o) \ (o) / (o) \ (o) / (o) \ (o) / (o) \ (o) / (o) \

Thengel held the field as long as was possible, and then, when it became clear that the result would only be foolish loss of life, he quitted the battle and withdrew behind his walls without hesitation. The jeers of the Southrons fell upon unhearing ears as the Rohirrim obeyed their king's command with laudable promptness.

Harnwe, unlike Fuinor, did not attempt to pursue them and breach the walls. He knew full well that he would not be able to affect an entrance by so small an opening as the rear gate, and it would be better to wait for the coming of Brerg with the catapults. Harnwe smiled as his men moved back into formation, and as his eyes raked the horizon, he paid no heed to the bodies of the slain. Brerg would have received his message by now. And when he arrived, the fair-haired barbarians would be trapped in their fort as neatly as rats in a hole.

"Bid the men rest," Harnwe ordered a lieutenant, "but do not disarm. We will renew our attack very soon."

/ (o) \ (o) / (o) \ (o) / (o) \ (o) / (o) \ (o) / (o) \

Eorwine looked over Medui's battlements at the ranks of Southron's. Whoever their commander was, he had apparently decided that an easy entrance could not be affected without reinforcements. It was a respite at least.

"Replace all the sentries and get the wounded down to the courtyard," the Rohirrim captain ordered, his lined face haggard.

"And so the wait begins," Gandalf commented from a little behind him. His voice was even, but a shade hoarse still after the confrontation at the gate. "I wondered when they would finally sit down."

"Let us hope Kelegalen has met with more success than we have; our fine plan had the unfortunate side-effect of retaining its workability for only a single attempt," Eorwine murmured, automatically grim. He made a loose gesture over the wall. "If the catapults come after all, we are trapped in here, and unless they be fools, they know it."

Gandalf tilted his head to look at the other, and seemed to see something he liked. "True. And even if the catapults never come, you are not free yet. Come, we must find someplace quiet to talk."

/ (o) \ (o) / (o) \ (o) / (o) \ (o) / (o) \ (o) / (o) \

Mavranor's rage over the escaped prisoner did not quite frighten Brerg, but he did not stay near the angry queen any longer than was necessary. Instead he sent his men to comb the camp and himself wandered a short ways off to pace restlessly along the partially destroyed northern wall of the captured fort. The Southron encampment within the walls had not stretched this far, but rather hung closer to the southern wall.

He was impatient to be off, and he was weary of the seeming confinement of the crumbling stones. As time wore on, Brerg was nearly ready to depart without orders or king — when the orders finally came, and with them the news that the king had already left. The runner's clipped message was to the point: Harnwe and Fuinor had lead afield the bulk of the army and had by now most certainly met the enemy. Brerg was to inform the Lady Mavranor, collect the catapults and join them immediately. Thus do, or be slain.

The standard conclusion to the missive was scarcely noted. Brerg turned back towards Mavranor's tent with all speed.

/ (o) \ (o) / (o) \ (o) / (o) \ (o) / (o) \ (o) / (o) \

The explosions began to deafen Nethtalt as he and Findel worked closer and closer towards Kelegalen and Thalion. There were only twelve explosives left if Nethtalt's count was correct and that would leave still six catapults to destroy in some other manner. All of the saboteurs were coated in soot, and though Nethtalt could spare not a moment to see how Stavhold and Gálmod faired at the entrance, he feared for them deeply. He could hear the battle raging behind him and felt his heart throb painfully, wishing, as he did, that he could run to their aid. 

"Another, Nethtalt," Findel coughed breathlessly and in response he quickly lit the fuse. The blast sent a jet of green smoke into the air and Nethtalt crouched over Findel as he had each time in case of falling debris; as soon as the smoke had cleared they stood and moved to the next. 

Stavhold's blade bit into the throat of one Southron and as he pushed the man away, another lunged in too quickly and found himself run through by the spear in the Rohirrim warrior's other hand. Gálmod worked quickly shooting down the enemy and grabbing back any of his used arrows that he could, but Stavhold could see he was running short.

The two defenders had managed to hold their ground and keep the Southrons from getting through the small entrance to the enclosure, but Stavhold knew it was only a matter of time; and he was correct. No sooner had the thought come to him than several Southrons charged him at once, forcing him back bodily and slipping past his lines. Stavhold gave a cry of rage and leapt in front of them again, shoving most of them back. A heavy spear thrust impaled one and went through the sword hand of the Southron just behind him; pulling the bloody weapon free, the Rohirrim slashed the other with his knife. 

"Kelegalen!" Stavhold shouted as he cut down the man just next to him, but his call was drowned out in a huge blast as another war machine came to ruin.

Kelegalen watched to make sure that the fuse had lit, then ducked back as the catapult blew. In the shower of debris he caught sight of a warrior running towards the burning machines opposite himself. He felt his heart pound when he realized that two Southrons had slipped past Stavhold and Gálmod's defense. "Nethtalt! Findel!" he called. The two looked up at his call, but Findel's gaze fell first on what he was indicating.

"Look out!" Findel cried urgently and Nethtalt quickly handed her the flint and steel, then drew an arrow to his bow

"Set the next one!" he called back to her, loosing the arrow at the Southron. It brought him down immediately, but the other was still coming, two scimitars in hand, and he was upon Nethtalt before the young man could shoot. 

The dark man slashed at Nethtalt's middle with one shining blade, making a cut towards his throat with the other at the same time. Nethtalt yanked a dagger from his belt and blocked one blow while he ducked out of the path of the other. The clash of steel made his ears ring.

"It's ready!"

"Light it!" he dodged a second blow from the warrior, but as he did this the Southron gave a swift kick in the young man's stomach, winding him sharply. The Southron turned from him and started towards Findel who was frantically trying to light the fuse. She saw him coming towards her and as he loomed over her she reflexively jabbed the thin steal into his leg just above his knee. Jerking it out, she stabbed again, blood trickling over her fingers. He stumbled back slightly and this gave her a moment, but he then raised his blade above her head.

Before he could bring it down on her he gave a sharp jolt and a gasp of surprise and fell backwards. Nethtalt appeared behind him and drew his blade out of the man's back. He dropped down next to Findel and searched her eyes hurriedly. "Are you all right?" he asked. She nodded and smiled wanly at him, and then without thought he leaned forward and kissed her quickly on the forehead. The two of them stared at each other for a moment, but an explosion drew them back instantly. 

Nethtalt took the flint and bloodied steel from her, wiping the latter quickly on his leg, and swiftly striking a spark onto the fuse. The two drew back and watched as the last of their explosives sent the war machine to its ruin.

/ (o) \ (o) / (o) \ (o) / (o) \ (o) / (o) \ (o) / (o) \

Stavhold's single eye followed the progress of the Southrons; it was now clear to him that their assault would not be held back much longer. Both he and Gálmod had repulsed them for the moment, but even now they were regrouping and it would not be long before they brought their final attack. Stavhold yanked the hand dagger from his leg and winced at the stinging pain. Gálmod looked at him, his eyes penetrating…but something else. The man seemed frightened. The emotion reflected Stavhold's own heart and the older Rohirrim knew it, but he had to keep fighting; he would not let Kelegalen down.

Stavhold saw the Southrons preparing for their final attack. "Come Gálmod, take courage! We have strength yet in out bodies."

Gálmod shook his head, his eyes darkening, "I do not wish death on myself so readily as you do, Stavhold."

Stavhold turned in bewilderment to the man beside him. 

"I know you do this only to gain favor with the captain, and you fancy yourself a brave hero. Well if death is your desire then may you take what honor it bears you to your grave. I will not sacrifice myself so thoughtlessly."

Stavhold shook his head in disbelief, "Gálmod, I do not wish to win any favor, nor do I feel myself a courageous man. I-I was a coward long before and I wish not to be so again. I will not run a second time." Gálmod took a step backward, Stavhold heard the Southron leader giving an order to charge. "Please Gálmod," Stavhold turned back to him. "Stand to the end! If it is our death that must come we should give our lives willingly for the sake of our people."

"Then give your life, Stavhold," Gálmod said and turned away at last. "Give it for what ever cause you deem worthy." 

Stavhold watched in horror as the man ran from the battle leaving him alone in the path of the Southrons. Terror threatened to engulf him, but almost immediately after he exhaled it from him and felt his resolve return once more. Never again would he run. He would fight, and if he was slain then he would die for his country, for his people, for his king, and for his companions. With a great cry he pointed his spear into the horde of Southron warriors, whirling and stabbing, feeling them crush around him even as he fought.

/ (o) \ (o) / (o) \ (o) / (o) \ (o) / (o) \ (o) / (o) \

Legolas' stand was taxed as Brerg's men brought their full force to bear on him. If he could bring this group down, it would not take them long to gain reinforcements, but maybe it would give him enough time to reach their horses hidden in the tree line. 

A man rushed Legolas heedlessly, trying to get past the elf to the injured human behind him. Legolas let the man pass him then slammed the Southron's head sharply against the stone tower. The man fell dropping his sword to the dust, unconscious before he had reached the ground.

Legolas gave a furious slash with his dagger and cut down another man close to him.

"No mercy!" a voice called clearly in the common tongue and Legolas wondered why, since many Southrons did not understand the common speech. Legolas found the man standing near the border of Southrons, his eyes on Legolas. "Cut it down like the mindless creature it is." Legolas felt his heart constrict suffocating and he drew back.

"Legolas?" Thorongil's tone was concerned.

"It is him Strider…the man who kill—" Legolas broke off, his eyes staring at Koth as the man drew out his blade. 

The Southrons began to chant a battle cry furiously as they regrouped, preparing to overwhelm the two, kill the elf, and take back their queen's prisoner. Legolas looked from Koth to the Southron soldiers. But there was no fear left.

The air shifted subtly as he felt Thorongil stand up beside him, the fallen Southron's sword in hand, and his eyes almost fever-bright, but defiant as he stared out at the massing men. Though the man still steadied himself with one hand against the tower, his feet were planted firmly and his blade was held in readiness despite his bloodied shoulders. 

Neither said a word; only exchanged a glance. Thorongil nodded once, and as the Southrons charged them, he drew his other hand from the wall.

****

TBC…


	25. Forgiven

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Sarah says hi! Sarah says bye! Sorry the responses are short and the post is short (not to mention that it actually doesn't go back to Thorongil and Legolas even once *runs from rotting fruit*), but 'swamped' is currently Hannah's and my middle name and as I warned you: we're posting on the fly. ;D

Mouse: Haha, you can't track us! We are the most un-find-able-est authors since… since… Cassia and Sio! Our hidy-holes stretch from the Shire to the sea of Rhun and are guarded by anonymity and booby traps! *bravado wavers into relief* Which is good, because otherwise we would probably be very worried just now. ;D

None: Thanks! And sorry about not having Thorongil and Legolas in this chapter. Believe me, we have them in the next one! :D

saber crazy: You know, I don't think I'll even try to protect our villain this time. I'm too much in sympathy with those intent on pulp-i-fying him. ;P Do you think a book ought to be written? 'Obi's Law and Other FanFiction-Related Reasons Why Things Go Wrong'? :D

Anarril: So glad you liked Thorongil! and Stavhold! and Findel! and Nethtalt! and Legolas! and Thengel! and Gandalf! ;D *bows* So pleased you enjoyed our chaos as well. ;)

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reginabean: *looks at regina's computer and ff.net* Now behave you two! Erm, sort of sorry about the cliffy… :)

Gwyn: Yup, he was trying to psych him out. And no, it's not very nice, but will it work…? Thanks on our climax! As for Galmod… I'm afraid we neither whomp him nor kill him, but if you stick around for our Special Features at the end of the fic, you'll know why. :P

Maranwe: Too short? Oh good. We were getting worried about you. :P Battle scenes are everlastingly hard to visualize, unless you meet a really brilliant writer! Like Tolkien. ;) Yeah, I'm a sucker for happy endings too! And we like over-excitement! Unfortunately, well, realism *will* creep in from time to time, and about the only excuse we can make was that we never realized people would wind up liking the characters we decided to kill off… :( Unfortunately too, we don't wind up giving Galmod the death he deserves. 'Why' you ask? Stick around for our Special Features thingy at the end of the fic and we'll tell you. :P By all means: do not bring down internet-depriving wrath upon your head!! :)

Belothian: Welcome!! Sorry about confusing you — if it helps it's: Eorwine and Gandalf against General Fuinor in one fort, and King Thengel and Bronweg against King Harnwe in the other fort. Glad you're enjoying it regardless! :D Forget Duurben? We're not *that* cruel! *turns to Hannah* Are we? :P And so sorry about your rapidly dying out favorite characters… :{ Glad you're still reading in spite of that!!

Crazy/evil: So glad to have you! And believe me, it's worth pages of feedback that you're even here! This far into the fic, anyone who's willing to catch up all the way is worth their weight in mithril. ;) Er, sorry about keeping you up, though… As for Thorongil — we've always pronounced it 'Thoron-gil', but since it's Tokien's name, that could be wrong.

Saige: Ever our Nethtalt fan! So glad he is still keeping up his good performance. :D

w: Ooh, such wonderful praise!! I mean about our chaos; much work equals much happiness when our efforts are appreciated! :D Glad/sorry about all that extra character-death related stress… Glad because you care about our OCs (since we can't very well kill of anything cannon), and sorry because, well, our intentions behind telling you ahead of time were to *save* you from stress! Obviously it didn't work… :P We are most pleased that Findel did not manage to make a walking nuisance of herself, and even managed to garner some approval (in spite of 'steal/steel' :D)! :) Thank you on our OC characters in general — particularly Eorwine, Galmod and Stavhold (more so the latter, for obvious reasons). ;) And a tremendous thanks on our recovery work!! That is something that has always bugged us about fan fiction as well — thus making it onto the 'And at all costs we must have absolutely none of that in *our* fic' list. Here's hoping we don't mess up our record… ;) As for Duurben, as I've apologized above and below, we don't get back to that particular story line in this next post! Sorry! :(

Your post! Such as it is… Please, don't kill us for leaving, um, BOTH of the heroes out of a whole post like this. :|

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/ (o) \ (o) / (o) \ (o) / (o) \ (o) / (o) \ (o) / (o) \

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Thorongil

By Sarah and Hannah (Siri)

(disclaimers, explanations, and summaries 

available at the top of chapter 1)

/ (o) \ (o) / (o) \ (o) / (o) \ (o) / (o) \ (o) / (o) \

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Chapter 25

Forgiven

Nethtalt looked around frantically for something they could use to burn the last five catapults. Kelegalen was across the enclosure from him, rigging up the last of his explosives to a single catapult. Gandalf had provided the saboteurs with one extra explosive in case of a miscalculation, but this was not enough to destroy the amount they had remaining.

"Findel! Nethtalt!" Kelegalen called across to them. "Gather what dry brush you can find from the forest, we may need it to burn these catapults!"

The two nodded and hurried to the tree line of the forest they were up against. Findel's soiled skirts caught on brambles and tripped her up as she reached the undergrowth, but Nethtalt caught her elbow and she pulled them free with a short jerk.

They found dry, scratchy grass growing sparsely around them, which could possibly be helpful to get a blaze going, but what they needed was something larger.

The two went further into the brush, searching around for what could be useful — Findel now holding onto the edges of her skirt and creating a sack to hold what she gathered; behind them they heard the battle raging. Suddenly Findel gasped and grabbed Nethtalt's wrist; he turned to her quickly.

"What is it?"

"Look," she mouthed, gesturing into the dense thicket beyond the line of trees. Nethtalt frowned at what she was pointing out, but it took him only a moment to recognize what it was.

Coming through the trees towards them was a group of about three or four Southrons. They were scanning through the wood, seeking out a way into the enclosure, and Nethtalt had little doubt that they would bring more to ambush the saboteurs.

"Quickly," he pulled her away before they could be seen and rushed to Kelegalen. "Father!" The young man called, halting his father who looked up from where he was rigging the last explosive to look at his son. "An ambush is coming through the thicket — they will be upon us soon if we cannot find a way to forestall them." 

Kelegalen shut his eyes in concentration on this new trouble. Barely had he begun to think, however, before his eyes snapped open and he looked from Nethtalt to Findel and the dry grass she still carried. 

"Of course," he whispered. "Thalion!" he called to the other man and ran to the catapult beside him. "We must move the catapults!"

"What?" Nethtalt looked at his father in surprise. "What do you mean?"

"We are going to start a brush fire," Kelegalen explained grimly, "but we must move these catapults as close as we can to into the forest first."

"But these are meant to be moved by many strong men," Thalion objected, coming up beside them. 

Kelegalen nodded shortly. "Today they must be moved by three men and a girl; we have no other choice."

Situating themselves quickly around the first catapult, they threw their weight against it. There were ropes attached to the catapults for the Southrons to move them and Thalion and Findel took these while Nethtalt and Kelegalen thrust their shoulders against the back of the machines. Once the wheels began moving the job grew easier and to their great fortune, much of the enclosure had been built on an incline. Once the catapult's movement had began it rolled quickly to the thicket, picking up speed until it had crashed into the brush.

The four Rohirrim did not wait to watch the machine's progress but moved instantly to the next. 

By the time the final catapult had been slammed into the others the four were exhausted, but followed the ruts down to the forests' edge.

"Flint, steel," was all Kelegalen said as they drew them out. "Light the grass, we have had a dry winter and it should burn easily."

Nethtalt flicked a spark into the materials he and Findel had collected and it lighted instantly. Findel looked up in time to see the ambush of Southron warriors heading their way. 

"Findel!" Thalion called. "Move back!" 

The girl nodded and turned as the heat from the fire licked at her legs. 

Running a short distance, she stood breathless at the edge of the trees as the flames began to ignite the clutter of fallen trees slowly, eating into the dead wood. Kelegalen had not spoken falsely, the dry weather had made kindling of the debris that covered the forest floor.

After a few anxious moments, she heard the Southrons cry out in fear and flee back the way they had come, but still she did not breathe easy until she saw the three Rohirrim stumble out of the forest towards her. All were blackened by the smoke that was already beginning to rise and spread.

"We must leave by another route," Kelegalen said breathlessly. "Come now, we must make haste to—"

He was cut off as a cry of pain lanced the air.

/ (o) \ (o) / (o) \ (o) / (o) \ (o) / (o) \ (o) / (o) \

Stavhold held against the warriors, striking them and beating them back, but they began to overwhelm him. A sword cleaved at last through his bloody spear and it dropped beside him; he felt them press in further. One warrior grabbed the man and yanked him to his feet, forcefully dragging him away from the pressing throng. Stavhold fought against him, but he knew it was no use. The Southron dropped him to the ground and Stavhold cried out as he felt the cold steel of the warrior's blade bite into his flesh between his shoulders and twist painfully. It was wrenched free and he felt his breath leave him in one scream of agony. He felt warm blood soaking his tunic. His knife fell from his limp hand, and his one eye closed as the Southrons swarmed past him.

/ (o) \ (o) / (o) \ (o) / (o) \ (o) / (o) \ (o) / (o) \

Kelegalen shouted Stavhold's name as he saw the man fall and the four Rohirrim stood in absolute shock as the Southrons began to push into the enclosure. 

It was then that they realized they were trapped inside.

Kelegalen drew out his weapon, his eyes never leaving the fallen form of Stavhold. Thalion and Nethtalt also drew their weapons and Findel, being without weapons, stepped back out of their way. Kelegalen doubted they had any hope of passing the Southrons, but he knew also that they must try. He regretted again that he had brought Nethtalt into this, and that he had allowed Findel to accompany them, but it was too late for such regrets now. 

The Southrons rushed towards them at great speed — then suddenly, in the instant that Kelegalen raised his sword, there was a mighty explosion that rocked the air and sent the Rohirrim stumbling forward. The Southrons drew back in startled panic.

"Run!" Kelegalen yelled to the others, seeing their opportunity. They got to their feet and began to push through the confused Southron host, swinging their blades at any who apposed them.

Kelegalen paused at the entrance to lift Stavhold over his shoulder, then he ran after his companions.

Instead of risking running through the Southron camp, they veered to the left and ran for the safety of the trees that were not ablaze. Nethtalt and Thalion stayed to the rear, still battling the Southrons who gave chase, but many had been too stunned by the explosion to regain their wits in time.

"What happened?" Nethtalt wondered aloud as they ran and Kelegalen smiled thinly despite the grim situation.

"In all the confusion of moving the catapults, I realize now that I had not set off the last explosive after placing it. I think the fire must have burned right into the very case itself instead of properly lighting it; thus it was not contained as Gandalf had meant it to be. It exploded much farther outward."

"It is to that we owe our escape," Thalion murmured as they slowed their pace within the shelter of the trees.

"No," Kelegalen whispered, suddenly sober as he again felt the burden he carried over his shoulder, "not only to that."

They ran until the sounds of the enemy became faint enough that Kelegalen felt it was safe to rest. Nethtalt and Findel built a small fire while Thalion tracked down something edible in the foliage. Kelegalen moved a short distance away and lay Stavhold down on the ground, red immediately staining the ground.

Kelegalen felt his heart clutch in pain at Stavhold's appearance. The man's eye opened slowly and he saw Kelegalen only vaguely above him.

"Capta—"

"Hush…" Kelegalen soothed gently, putting his fingers against the man's mouth. "You will be well my friend."

"We have escaped?" Stavhold questioned, ignoring Kelegalen's order.

"Yes Stavhold," Kelegalen whispered placing his hand against his friend's cheek, he felt blood run over his fingers from a gash on the wounded man's head.

"And you are all safe?" Stavhold's voice trembled and blood gathered at the corners of his mouth.

"We are all safe," Kelegalen nodded his voice also trembling as he spoke.

"Good." Stavhold closed his eye once more and his breath hitched slightly. 

"I did not see Gálmod," Kelegalen said, trying to keep his friend with him.

"Gál—Gálmod left." Stavhold's words were slurred and he found it difficult to breathe. He couldn't feel his arms or his legs anymore.

Kelegalen felt his heart rend at the sight. Gálmod had abandoned them…Stavhold had not.

"I am so sorry," Stavhold whispered, forcing the words out of his failing body. "I am so—so sorry I abandoned Strider, Legolas…and you."

"It is forgiven," Kelegalen tried to hold back the tears in his eyes. "You fought with bravery and courage today, you did not run from the danger but faced it; you saved our lives. You saved us." He needed desperately for Stavhold to understand.

Stavhold opened his eye again and looked up at Kelegalen. For a moment he focused on the other man's face, and he smiled as the words brought release to his shuddering heart. His last breath was a soundless whisper of approaching sleep. Then his seeing eye glazed over as the one which was sightless and his body settled in amongst the fallen leaves.

Kelegalen's head dropped and slowly he placed his hand against his own chest, then against Stavhold's chest. He felt warm tears slide down his face as he gently removed the eye patch from Stavhold's right eye, then closed both eyes carefully and rose to his feet. And for a short time he merely stood there, looking down at his fallen friend.

****

TBC…


	26. Escaping Tulganif

****

Sarah here! Thank you for not waxing too rabid on our mistaken exclusion of the main heroes for a whole post like that… We honestly didn't realize we had until we sat down to post it! :{

saber crazy: Ack! *flees from rubber chicken* And please, no eyebrows! *covers eyes to protect herself, only to run smack into the wall* Oops. Ow. :P Like I've been saying to everyone else, I'm afraid we can't kill Galmod. To find out why, read our Special Features at the end of the fic! Besides, BBQing him would be little short of horrendous. Can you imagine the *smell*?! ;) Alas, you're probably right about the book…

Crazy/evil: Thanx!!!! Believe me, your comments worked for us! ;) Sorry we made you so drowsy…

Lina: I will never understand how it is that you automatically become attached to the most recent casualty — unless of course the death in question is a villain, or is of your own making… *hands Lina a tissue with a rueful sigh* Alas, your everlasting oddity will be the undoing of Hannah and I… We laugh much longer and louder than is good for us, as a rule, and have reached a decision that whatever you say/do/attempt-to-do/slay/maim/or-otherwise-mangle is just LINA. ;P Which doesn't mean we want you burning Findel at the stake! *bustles Findel off with Nethtalt and sweeps away their tracks with a broom* Far from it. *chases off after Lina* And the same goes for Mavranor, though not for the same reasons!! :D

Eomer: *hands out large red hankies to all the Rohirrim* Thank you all, but you really ought to be careful! After all, what if you — *all the Rohirrim's armor rusts solid* Yeah. That. *heads off to find an oil can*

Gwyn: Nope, he didn't deserve it, but then, we have discovered the downside to pre-destining certain of our characters to perish! It's one thing to say 'let's pull such and such out of mothballs and have him redeem his past misdeeds with a wonderful death scene that is neither a main-character-death, nor an expendable-crewman-death!', and it's quite another thing to try and keep the character from developing into a likeable person… Argh!! Still, thank you so much and glad you enjoyed the angst! :D

None: Thanks! And yup, here's Thorongil and Legolas… :)

Maranwe: Thank you! Erm, and actually no, we didn't do this on purpose… We only realized it had happened when we went to post — at which point we turned, stared at each other, and groaned, "They're all going to KILL us!" Believe me, we intend to be more careful in the future… Or maybe we'll decide the increased suspense is worth the death threats… ;P LOL! No, no amount of SW fan fiction has managed to instill patience in me either. As for whether anyone *ever* rips into Galmod, I honestly don't know… We don't, unfortunately. :{ Just about nobody but them in this chapter — I think Harnwe or someone makes a short appearance… :) Thank so much on our characters!! A wonderful compliment, I must say. :D

Anarril: *applauds* Great job, Anarril!! You are the first person to recognize Galmod (and his relatives)! Several readers have wanted to know why it is Hannah and I can't kill the guy off and we've been telling them to wait for our Special Features section at the end. :D Oh, and um, sorry about Stavhold… I was just telling Gwyn that it's one thing to decide at chapter one that we're going to include and then kill off Stavhold — it's another thing to actually *do* it when you've accidentally let him build a character for himself… :P

Mouse: *bows* Glad you liked our explosions! ;D *sighs over mention of Strider and calls over shoulder* Hannah? We may need to head for either the Moria or the Dead Marshes hide-outs! He doesn't like either of those places… :P

Belothien: Not slow, we're just confusing. ;) Yeah, sorry about that, but we'll try and remedy at least the Thorongil-absence problem in this post. :D I may as well tell you: No, Galmod doesn't come back, and even if he did, we couldn't kill him anyway. Bummer huh? To find out why: stick around for our Special Features at the end of the fic! ;) *pats Belothien consolingly* Not *all* the wrong ones! Don't worry, we kill no one else. I'm pretty sure… *runs to check* :) Harnwe and Mavranor get their comeuppance in the end, don't worry, but whether that will entail death remains to be seen… :D

w: Hanta le! Your feedback was, as ever, greatly appreciated! Especially your semi-willingness to admit the pros of having a chapter solely for Stavhold like that… *glances ruefully at several other readers and their various devices of torture (rubber chickens, etc.)* Some people didn't even give us that much. :P An extra big hug and a hanky on Stavhold's death — let's just say we'd been reading Chloe's Erfier that day and we couldn't help ourselves. Besides, as much as we had planned from square one that Stavhold would die in this fic, we *liked* him! :( Anywho, as for the absent heroes: evil we are not — or at least, not intentionally! We didn't realize we'd left them out of a whole chapter like that until we posted it. :} We will [try] not to do it ever again! :D

And away I dash again! Enjoy your restored heroes… :)

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/ (o) \ (o) / (o) \ (o) / (o) \ (o) / (o) \ (o) / (o) \

****

Thorongil

By Sarah and Hannah (Siri)

(disclaimers, explanations, and summaries 

available at the top of chapter 1)

/ (o) \ (o) / (o) \ (o) / (o) \ (o) / (o) \ (o) / (o) \

****

Chapter 26

Escaping Tulganif

The sudden onslaught of the Southron soldiers threatened to overwhelm the man and elf. For a moment Legolas was worried that their position against the crumbling tower would be their undoing, but in the end it served as an advantage. Due to the shape of the tower they were allowed much maneuverability and it was impossible to work them into a corner. Yet they were outnumbered nearly twenty to one. Never once did it seem they could breathe before another of the enemy was upon them and in a short time the bodies of the fallen lay strewn around them.

Thorongil was weakened greatly by his ordeal, but the strong blood that flowed within him held him fast for a time against the attack. Even with this, though, Legolas realized they could not tarry any longer. He knew most of the Southrons had left for the battlefield with their king and his commanders, but likely there were yet reinforcements in the camp and against such numbers Legolas was certain they could not survive; but how could they hope to evade the men that still fought so close around them?

Legolas cut down another soldier and began to work his way forwards, clipping the fray of the Southron attack and leaving the enemy to approach in fewer numbers; in this way he avoided a full attack or the risk of one getting behind him. With a start, he realized he had worked himself far from the sentry tower and was no longer standing beside his friend. Turning swiftly, ducking a blow from a Southron blade at the same time, he scanned with his keen eyes for Thorongil. The man was locked in a hard combat with a Southron that Legolas recognized all too well.

Bringing to the ground the Southron just behind him, Legolas tried to work himself back to the tower, but every moment it seemed he was forced to stop and ward off another soldier trying to block his way. He felt them press around and between him and his friend as they worked him back to the tower's base. Twisting about, he tried desperately to glimpse his companion again. The man was still battling hard for his life, but Legolas could easily see the blood still running from his friend's shoulders and back, and his strokes were getting weaker.

Suddenly Koth threw a hard blow into Thorongil's side, slamming him hard to the ground. Thorongil raised his sword and parried the next furious assault, but he was not strong enough to hold long and when Koth gave him a hard blow in the shoulder, his blade fell to the ground. With a tremendous effort, Legolas shoved his weight against the soldiers pressing against and threw himself towards Thorongil, slashing the two Southrons who stood in his way across the face. He reached Koth a moment before his blade could fall and drove his elven dagger straight into the man's back, twisting it free again and hooking the man's legs out from under him. Koth fell to the ground, his startled eyes staring up at Legolas for a brief moment before they clouded. 

Legolas let out a stiff breath before reaching down to pull Thorongil to his feet, being as mindful as he could of his friend's injuries.

"It is time to flee the field, my friend." 

Thorongil nodded once in silent agreement, regaining his breath as he shakily retrieved his blade from the ground. "And what do you suggest, master elf?" He gave a humorous grimace as the Southrons approached them again, stalled very little by the fall of their current captain. 

"We must draw them away from our escape," Legolas murmured. "You start around the tower and head out the gap in the west side of the wall."

"What about you?" Thorongil questioned immediately.

"I will draw them away then help you to your horse. Then I must come back and retrieve something, but I can do it alone."

The elf was adamant, hoping to stall any protest, but Thorongil was all ready shaking his head, "I don't think—"

"Go, Strider!" Legolas snapped urgently, and he rushed back to confront the Southrons. Thorongil stood at a loss for only a moment, but he knew he had to trust his friend. Whatever the elf had to retrieve, it must be important. Moving quickly, he started around one side of the tower in the direction Legolas had shown him. Catching sight of his companion briefly as he broke through the throng of soldiers and headed around the tower in the other direction, Thorongil did not pause another moment but ran unsteadily for the gap.

Legolas waited until he was certain that Southrons would be blind to his presence. Around the tower there was a very sharp curve behind which he could not be seen, providing a moment to disappear all together. He sped up before he reached the curve, then vanished around it. No sooner had he broken around the side then he grabbed some of the broken molding and slid nimbly up the tower until he was sure that not even a watchful eye could see him. At that same moment, the Southrons themselves rounded the curve and halted in confusion. 

They glanced around the camp, trying to make out where the elf had gone, and Legolas did not waste a moment of their distraction. Inching around the tower until he could plainly see Thorongil making his retreat, he leapt from the height and landed quietly on the ground a short distance behind his friend. Thorongil heard and turned quickly but when he realized it was Legolas he smiled.

"How long have you bought us?" he asked, slowing slightly, his weariness causing his brow to knot tightly and his breath to come short.

"Unfortunately not enough for us to stagger in the retreat," Legolas replied ruefully as he reached his friend's side. "Come, we must make haste to the wood."

They ran on a little longer with Legolas a little in the front in case of further resistance before the elf realized that Thorongil had dropped wearily to his knees a good distance behind him. Legolas started hastily back towards him, his eyes widening with concern. So concentrated was he that he did not sense the danger until it was upon them.

With a cry Brerg saw them and bore down, a knife in hand as he leapt towards Thorongil. The injured man had neither seen nor heard his approach, and the Southron had decided a clean kill would be easier to confess to the Lady Mavranor than a clean escape. Legolas felt the earth spasm beneath his feet — the horrible realization — he was too far away.

"_Aragorn!_" 

The man did not even have time to turn at the sudden outcry of his true name— And then there was a whistle of air just by Legolas' ear as something flew past him. Before he could realize what it was he saw, Brerg fell back with a scream, mere inches from the human he had prepared to kill. The hilt of a long blade protruded from his back.

Brerg gasped — a wrenching, choking sound — as he tried to reach behind and withdraw the knife. He leaned forward, blood on his hands, and tried to raise his weapon again, when there was a second impact and without a sound, he fell. A second knife, elven in make, was planted solidly in his neck. 

Legolas reached his friend and pulled the body off him, dropping down on the earth next to him. The man was breathing heavily, his dark hair falling around his face, and a sheen of sweat clinging to his brow. Legolas helped him slowly to his feet and looked up to see who had thrown the first knife.

It was Duurben.

Legolas let out a long breath of relief as the soldier approached; the bruise on his head was evident and he walked with a slight stagger, but this disorientation had had no effect on his aim.

"Thank you Duurben," Legolas gave the man a look of infinite gratitude as he threaded his arms under Thorongil's and lifted the captain once more, but Duurben only nodded for the moment, motioning behind them.

"We must hurry." The lieutenant indicated the Southrons who had now discovered their mistake and begun their pursuit once more. Legolas nodded, supporting Thorongil as he helped him towards the glade just beyond them. Duurben ran ahead to untie the horses so he could meet the two friends halfway. 

Legolas could hear the cries and shouts of the Southrons, but he did not cease his retreat to look back at them. The horses broke from the thicket in another moment and Legolas quickly hoisted Thorongil up onto Maerhiin, steadying him in the saddle before he mounted Norleg. Duurben was already riding Breon and the three horses needed no prompting to bear their riders as far from the pursuing soldiers as they could. 

Thorongil looked back at the camp one last time before returning his gaze out to the plains; he felt relief pour through him at their escape and he turned briefly to smile at his friend. Legolas caught his gaze and smiled back and for a time, that was all that needed to be said.

Galloping still, the three turned towards Nannva in hopes that they would find that their companions had been equally successful in their quest.

/ (o) \ (o) / (o) \ (o) / (o) \ (o) / (o) \ (o) / (o) \

The sun was climbing in the sky, signifying the end of the morning, when a runner finally appeared. Harnwe came from the slight warmth of a charcoal brazier that had been set up for his use and met the panting messenger just out of earshot from the rest of his men. For several minutes they were seen to be conversing quietly. Abruptly the king stiffened and the messenger cringed, then continued with whatever information he was relating. On the man talked, gesturing occasionally; making upward rushing movements, as if he were pantomiming a geyser, or pointing eastwards as if to signify the flight of a flock of birds, or touching his forehead in the Southron's superstitious method of warding away unhappy ghosts. When at last the weary Southron finished, Harnwe nodded his head once and turned back to his men.

His features were dark: darker even than the deep tan all the Southron's possessed. His captains looked at him, expecting to hear word of Brerg's coming; for surely the messenger could have come from no one else. But they were immediately proved false in their assumptions, for the king did no more than order them to ready the troops. Only one man, younger than the others and foolish, opened his lips.

"Sire, what of the catapults?"

Harnwe spun on him, his wroth tingling like heat lightening. "I have spoken! Am I not king? And are you incapable of taking such an insignificant force without aid?!"

"No, indeed not, sire." The captain stammered, bowing low at the waist and retreating hastily.

"Good. We renew the attack immediately and do not wait for Brerg. He has been delayed."

As the king strode away to where his mûmak was being readied, the captains looked at one another. Harnwe's use of the word 'delayed' seemed rather too final to suggest that any reinforcements would be sent them. Which meant, somehow, unthinkably, some allies of the barbarians had arrived from behind. Had arrived, and had struck so hard and swiftly as to undo the greatest general ever to serve Harnwe; and any force strong enough to do such as that…

As the captains readied their men, they continued to cast glances over their shoulders in the direction of their camp. But no longer did they wait with anticipation.

/ (o) \ (o) / (o) \ (o) / (o) \ (o) / (o) \ (o) / (o) \

Both the men and Legolas reached Nannva and sought out shelter in the stable where they put up their horses for a rest. 

After Thorongil had guided Maerhiin into his stall, he moved shakily to the stable door, holding the frame and staring out across the plains in the direction from which would come Kelegalen's party. But his muscles trembled all through him and, despite his best efforts to stay upright, the adrenaline that had kept him on his feet suddenly failed him and he sank to his hands and knees on the hard ground outside the stable. 

Duurben and Legolas ran to the man's side, the elf reaching him first and carefully pulling his friend back to his feet so he could guide him to a warm place in the stable. The lieutenant tried to find something to make himself useful and Legolas, catching his restlessness, requested that he get some water. With relief Duurben moved to obey immediately.

Legolas let his friend gently collapse into a pile of hay near the back of the stable, then moved to get his travel pack where he kept his supplies.

"Legolas," Thorongil groaned, his face white, "I am fine, don't worry, I'm just a little tired."

"Yes, I believe you *are* tired," Legolas replied dryly. "However I don't believe you are fine. You have sustained far too many injuries and lost far too much blood to go riding a stallion all the distance you did, and yet you were forced to anyway, and I'm not going to hear one word out of you unless you are agreeing with me; is that entirely understood?"

Thorongil said nothing, but Legolas didn't miss the light chuckle the moment his back was turned.

Duurben returned soon after to find the elf cleansing and bandaging the wounds in the captain's shoulders and across his back. Legolas took the water from soldier gratefully and gave some to Thorongil to drink, using the rest to clean out the many injuries the man had suffered.

"I thank you very much for your aid in our escape, Duurben," Thorongil spoke up after a moment, to cover a wince he was sure he would make as Legolas saw to the welts from the Lady Mavranor's sharp nails.

"I am glad Legolas permitted me to help, sir," Duurben replied, then his glance turned embarrassed and he cocked his eyes towards the large bruise on his head. "I am only sorry I could not do more."

Thorongil raised his eyebrows at Legolas who was making no comment. "I presume now would be the time to bless your knack for turning up conscious when others presume you safely sheltered," the captain said with a smile. His lieutenant inclined his head and there was a possible glint of what might have been dry humor in his eyes.

The man left after a while to keep watch for the others and Thorongil's fond gaze followed him. "A most excellent friend, Duurben. Cheerful in a pessimistic way, dependable, an excellent fighter, and loyal to the point of being a nuisance." 

To that Legolas gave a slight snort at the last one and shook his head, "I know someone like that."

Thorongil gave his friend a patient frown before laughing once more, "That's all right. Come to think of it, so do I." 

Legolas gave him a startled look then laughed as well, "I suppose I asked for that didn't I?" 

Thorongil stared at him a moment then gave a small nod. "Yes, yes you did," he agreed, more seriously. "Though I wouldn't say you were a nuisance this time, my friend." Legolas sat back silently to look at the man as he continued, "I cannot tell you how relieved I was to see you; I had prepared myself for the end." 

The elf winced slightly and looked down at the words. 

Thorongil's voice was warm as he finished, "But that was my own folly." 

Legolas looked back up again to see the man's blue eyes shining at him. 

"My friend, not a time can I remember when you have failed me. I know that you have been turned aside or detained a short distance behind at times, but that is the way of things. All I can say is that he who doubted that you always give your utmost for your friends would be a fool indeed. And there is no reason for you to believe that when you fail, it must be through some fault of your own; even to the inability to stall the tide or turn it back." Thorongil smiled and leaned forward to place one hand on his friend's knee, and Legolas grasped his forearm lightly. Though the elf's eyes were glittering faintly again, he finally seemed at peace. "I thank you, Legolas Greenleaf, for being always so faithful and for saving me on this occasion like so many others."

The elf smiled and when he blinked his eyes the tears seemed to go, taking with them both pain and guilt. "Then at last you admit that you need saving on many occasions."

"I didn't deny it," Thorongil retorted, his voice turning defensive as Legolas returned to tending his wounds. "I just think you elves worry too much about injury. We men may be mortal, but we won't break if you drop us."

"It depends from how high we drop you. I seem to remember an occasion above the Bruinen when—"

"Speak no further," Thorongil growled good-naturedly. "I knew you would bring that up! I told you then that I *knew* you would never let me live that down!"

The friends' laughter carried from the stable out to where Duurben awaited the others' return. He could not have known what hurt his captain had just healed, but he didn't need to know that to recognize how soothing the easy banter and laughter was. And as he stood there listening he could not help but smile to himself.

/ (o) \ (o) / (o) \ (o) / (o) \ (o) / (o) \ (o) / (o) \

Duurben entered several hours later with news that he could see the Rohirrim approaching. Legolas and Thorongil — after much arguing as to whether he was strong enough — left the stable to greet their companions when they arrived. Thorongil was drawn and pale, but already fairing a little better, and he had managed to doze for a while as they waited. 

Thorongil could easily see the Rohirrim approaching and Legolas could, in consequence, already make out the men as they approached.

Kelegalen saw them and dropped down from his horse running the last several yards. He reached them and embraced Thorongil, mindful of the stained bandages, "I am deeply relieved to see you alive and on your own two feet, my friend!"

Thorongil smiled and returned the embrace before releasing the man and looking over his company as they reached him. He was surprised to see Findel riding beside Nethtalt, her eyes shining happily through a heavy layer of dark soot.

Thorongil glanced at Legolas who shook his head and rolled his eyes heavenwards, which was a definite signal that the captain would hear all about it later.

His attention moved on to Thalion who saluted him with a relieved, if tired, smile, but then Thorongil frowned. "Did Gálmod and Stavhold not accompany you then on your quest Kelegalen?" he asked softly.

Kelegalen dropped his gaze for a moment and Thorongil felt his heart leap painfully in his chest. "Gálmod and Stavhold did accompany us," Kelegalen replied. "They defended the enclosure against the Southrons while we destroyed the catapults. And when Gálmod abandoned his post to flee the danger, Stavhold remained and stood his ground. The war machines now lie in ruin and the price we paid was Stavhold's life."

Thorongil closed his eyes for a long moment before opening them again to look at Kelegalen. "It is a hard victory," Nethtalt spoke softly, "but a victory indeed."

****

TBC… 

Okay, sabercrazy: you can put away the eyebrows, and Mouse: we want our Easter eggs back! :P


	27. The Gasp of War, The Breath of Peace

****

Sarah is here and Sarah is rushed, so Sarah is going to do the unprecedented thing and _put off responding to all the fabulous readers until the next chapter!!!_ Sarah has a good reason: she has to leave the house in just a few minutes and she will not be home until evening at which point she is likely to crash into bed and _sleep _until the next posting day. Sarah considered putting off the whole deal — responses, chapter, and all — but figured the delightful readers would prefer to have at least half of what was due them if they could not have all. She hopes you will enjoy the chapter!! (Note: Sarah frequently talks in the third person when Sarah is Way Too Busy) ;D *Sarah dashes off*

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/ (o) \ (o) / (o) \ (o) / (o) \ (o) / (o) \ (o) / (o) \

****

Thorongil

By Sarah and Hannah (Siri)

(disclaimers, explanations, and summaries 

available at the top of chapter 1)

/ (o) \ (o) / (o) \ (o) / (o) \ (o) / (o) \ (o) / (o) \

****

Chapter 27

The Gasp of War, The Breath of Peace

"I doubt this room has ever had as much use as we have put to it within these past few weeks." Eorwine noted inconsequentially as he finally allowed himself to sit for a short while in the guardhouse. Gandalf, a pace or two behind him, paused a moment on the threshold, his sharp eyes picking out the stains on the floor and the faint scratches of something heavy being dragged away. His head came up.

"Is all well?"

Aldor nodded from where he stood beside the door, holding it open as the wizard entered. His bow was still in his hand, and some of the Southron's blood remained on his brown leggings. He didn't offer an explanation, and Gandalf neither requested nor demanded one, accepting the boy's word for now as that of an adult.

"Good. Now, to business. Your enemies will most certainly not simply turn about and go home when they discover that their machines are not forthcoming. They will attempt a strike on their own, and you are little ready to withstand them."

"Aye," Eorwine agreed levelly. "About the only thing they cannot do now is crush the walls."

"Actually, they still may. Mûmakil are little use at pushing walls in — those tusks of theirs are not built for it — but they are still considerably strong." The wizard's bushy eyebrows contracted as he hunched forward in thought.

"Could we leave out meat with poison in it for them to eat?" asked Aldor hesitantly. "Mother makes good poison."

From the far side of the room, Rokhiell laughed briefly in spite of herself.

"A fine compliment, Aldor," Gandalf nodded, smiling as well. "Unfortunately, mûmakil do not eat meat. However, that is not to say that you are too far wrong. Of what sort was your poison, madam?"

Rokhiell shook her head, "All women here make it, and it was only for rats; brewed from a root that grows in this country. According to my husband it thins the blood and they die within minutes."

Gandalf nodded thoughtfully, mulling something over in his own head. "How many archers do you have within the walls?"

"Not as many as we ought; many of them were slain before our retreat, and of those that remain…" Eorwine grimaced. "Well, if you had seen them practicing, you would understand."

Gandalf shook his head, "It doesn't matter; their targets should not be small."

/ (o) \ (o) / (o) \ (o) / (o) \ (o) / (o) \ (o) / (o) \

At one end of the field, a Southron began to chant. Harnwe could not see who it was from where he sat, but the voice was deep and confident. A second voice joined it. A third. The sound swelled, slowly at first, and then finally all at once, like a dam bursting. Loud and incessant the chant pounded, the soldiers striking the ground with their spear butts as they shouted, and their blood rising until they could barely be restrained. 

Harnwe smiled, his hand caressing the pommel of his scimitar, and signaled, and again the long, vibrating thrum of the battle horn rang out over all, nearly drowned in the roar of the men. With a deafening tramp, the Southrons advanced, still chanting.

/ (o) \ (o) / (o) \ (o) / (o) \ (o) / (o) \ (o) / (o) \

"Are you near done?" Thengel asked calmly, in spite of the sweat on his forehead. The wound on his leg, though by no means mortal, burned painfully and there were no herbs to spare for cooling it.

Bronweg, his hands holding the last of the bandage in place, looked about anxiously, "Near, my lord, but I need some smaller cloth to tie this, else it will come undone."

"Ah," the king shifted to reach the pouch on his belt and rummaged in it for a moment before producing a short length of gray cloth. "Will this do?" 

As the marshal accepted it and shook it clean of a few clinging crumbs, the king could not withhold a faint smile. It was the cloth with which Taetho had wrapped his meal when he departed from Edoras.

"Come, sire, I will help you to the barracks."

"No, Bronweg, you will help me to the wall," Thengel corrected him firmly, moving to help himself, if the marshal protested. 

The marshal did. "My lord, I beg you will pardon me for arguing, but if you are slain, there will be no heart left in these men!"

"And if I hang back, the result will be the same," Thengel's lips compressed into a firm line as he hoisted himself to his feet. "Now aid me or leave me."

There was a silence, and then the marshal bowed, and leant his arm to his king.

And softly, there came the beginning sounds of a rising chant from outside the walls.

/ (o) \ (o) / (o) \ (o) / (o) \ (o) / (o) \ (o) / (o) \

Aldor brushed dirt from his hands on his already filthy pants and scraped again more vigorously at the walls of the hold. It was well that the Southron prisoners were already gone, for now there was nowhere left to put them. All around him, Aldor could hear the sounds of other people digging into the walls, and under his feet he could feel the loose dirt that he had already scraped away. Further he dug, and faster, until at last he soil encrusted nails found what he was looking for: a pale root, about the size of his hand.

Dropping his shovel, he ran up the stairs and out into the sun, dirt shaking itself free from his clothing as he went. Rokhiell pushed her damp hair from her sweaty forehead as her son came up and accepted the plant quickly, wiping it clean on her skirt and carefully adding it to the pulpy mixture already bubbling and frothing over the fire. About them both was near confusion; other refugees were appearing from the hold, similar roots in hand, and several other women were standing in a close huddle around the small courtyard, each with a pot — or even a few with upturned helmets — simmering over fires. Rokhiell moved to fetch more water from the well as her son ran back the way he had come.

On her return, bucket in hand, she met Gandalf carrying a bundle of arrows and a pouch of stones. The pouch he slung over his shoulder, but the arrows he began to hand out amongst the women. As she passed behind him, he glanced at her and said mildly, "Beautiful day, is it not? And your skirt is on fire."

Rokhiell, her mind dulled by weariness, looked down at her skirt. She had walked too close to one of the fires and the edge of her skirt was just beginning to break into flames. Without time to waste on it, she spilled a portion of the well water down her dress, and continued walking.

She had just reached her own fire when there came a loud grinding noise, followed by a shattering *CLANG*. She twisted around, staring towards the wall where a pronged iron grappling hook had now appeared, as if by violent magic. Another clang, and this time she saw the hook sail over the wall top, drag a short distance, looking for purchase, and finally catch on the parapet.

A riot of screams and cries broke out amongst the startled people, and many began to rush back towards the buildings to take shelter. In the midst of all the confusion, Rokhiell was handed the remaining arrows and she quickly set them, point downwards, in her pot. By the time she looked around, Gandalf was already on the wall top.

Eorwine stooped to check the body of a soldier, struck full on when the grappling hook came over the wall, and sighed. He was quite dead. At his side, Gandalf had pulled out a pouch of stones and was now muttering over one of them. With a last word, he cast it down and it hit the ground, exploding outwards and showering the nearest few Haradrim with white hot stone chips.

"We will have to hold them off for a bit," the wizard said.

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For a little while, Fuinor allowed himself the luxury of cursing his fortune. He had expected that the walls would be torn down for him, and had not carried with him any equipment for scaling the sides of the fort. Then his natural cunning rose to the challenge.

Now he gazed with satisfaction upon his newest plan. Surely, this could not fail. Surely now, at last, he would do something worthy of recognition! Tales would be told of this moment long after he was dead. Smiling scornfully at the weak attempts of a few archers on the battlements, he ordered his own mûmak to be brought closer to the wall top. Alongside his path, a struggle was taking place between the masters of the war beasts and the mûmakil themselves, as the great creatures were herded into two groups and each group chained to the single grappling hook chain. Already several men had been crushed when one of the animals had become angry at being too close to the others of it's kind and had twisted around in it's makeshift harness to bellow in protest.

General Fuinor gave no heed, but continued on, and when at last he reached a better vantage point near the walls, the chains had at last tightened as the mûmakil were given the order to move forward. There was a *clink* *ccccssssh* of metal links rubbing against leathery hide and stone walls, and then the soft cracking sound of old mortar slowly giving way. Fuinor smirked at the doomed fort.

Yes, men would long remember this moment.

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Harnwe gazed fixedly out across his men. He had not been so fool-hardy as to depend solely on the success of his catapults. The surest way to defeat was to neglect the possibility of defeat. The Southron king knew that in the winning of this battle lay his sole way of remaining in power and he refused to take ridiculous chances. 

Now the grappling hooks and ladders had been unloaded from the backs of the mû makil and passed amongst the men, and even as the more accurate archers from Thengel's troops mowed down the front ranks, ladders sprang forward and latched onto the parapets all along the wall with iron hooks. The pounding chant fragmented as the men swarmed up them, their voices blending a more chaotic roar as they raised their scimitars at the ready.

Several Rohirrim on the wall tops tried in vain to dislodge the hooks, but the weight of the men on the ladders held them tight to the stones. Southrons began to reach the tops and throw themselves through the openings in the wall top, slashing in strange zigzag patterns to clear themselves a path. Rohirrim fell into the courtyard below as the narrow walls became overcrowded, and for a short time it seemed the fort might be taken in the first attack. Bronweg stayed close at Thengel's side, knowing that with his injured leg the king would be easily thrown down. As the marshal blocked the heavy blows of the first wave of soldiers, Thengel was given a moment's pause with his blade unoccupied. There was an all too familiar metallic clang as another set of ladder hooks met with the stones, and Thengel stared in near fascination as the hooks dug slowly deeper as the enemy began to climb.

An odd remnant of memory strayed through his mind as he recalled a day shortly after he had arrived at Ladin. Bronweg had shown him about, guilt plain on his face as he surveyed the decaying fort. *_A gloved hand, coated in crumbling masonry… "I fear I have failed in my trust."*_ Thrusting his sword blade between the stones, the king felt the steel slide home with greater ease than ought to have been possible. Ignoring the stabbing insistent pain in his leg, he heaved against his sword like a lever, shifting the stone slightly back and forth so as not to risk breaking the blade. There came the sound of footfalls vibrating up the ladder, and the weight increased until at last it overbalanced the stone to which it was anchored.

One of the Southrons gave a cry as the ladder tipped backwards — paused for a heartbeat, standing completely upright with the stone still caught on the hooks — then fell, bringing them with it. A small shower of dust tumbled down with them.

A pleased shout came from somewhere farther down the Rohirrim line and other swords were put to task, but before they could all be brought down, the second wave was upon them.

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Rokhiell's hair was now in complete disarray and her skirt had been set alight twice more in all her running about. Gathering up a large bundle of arrows from their pot, she wrapped an old piece of harness leather around them and handed them off to her son. Half the women had deserted their fires when the fight had broken out, and those that remained were in a half frenzy, trying to get the arrows finished before the archers on the wall tops ran out.

Aldor, careful of the tips, slung the bundle over his shoulder and ran up the stairs to the wall top, using his hands on the steps in front of him to keep his balance. A soldier was waiting for him and hurriedly took the whole bundle. Turning around, Aldor ran back down the steps, two at a time, and back to where his mother was already wrapping a fresh batch.

The arrows were passed gingerly along, orders being shouted loud enough for even the enemy to hear — since the Southrons could not understand their speech anyway.

"Archers," Eorwine bellowed, "fire!"

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All of the members of Kelegalen's company were in need of attention to injuries — Thalion had been caught on the back of the head by some falling debris from the final explosion, and Kelegalen had got a cut across his leg, though he could not remember where from — but Nethtalt had probably faired the worst. Having battled with the Southron, he had several deeper cuts and bruised ribs, besides the abundance of scratches and splinters that everyone seemed to have.

"I am thankful that my Rokhiell is not here," Thalion spoke up with mirth as he sat beside Thorongil and Legolas watching the comical scene that played out before them.

Nethtalt and Findel were having a veritable battle arguing about whether or not Nethtalt was really hurt. Nethtalt was, by far, fairing the better in the argument, but Findel was working her way to his travel pack to retrieve some ointments and bandages anyway.

"Findel please, there is nothing wrong with me that a little water and cloth won't fix when we return to Medui."

"So you say!" Findel called from stable where she was even now digging through Nethtalt's pack in search of the proper supplies. "But I will not be silenced until I have made sure for myself—" she broke off suddenly. "After all," she concluded after a pause, "what would your father say?"

"I refuse to be dragged into the conversation," Kelegalen remarked with a laugh as he came to sit beside Thorongil. Nethtalt sighed and looked to his father for help, but the older man only smiled at his hapless son.

A moment later Findel walked from the stable, her brow knitted into a slight frown as she gazed down at the thing in her hand.

"Nethtalt?" she questioned, sitting beside him and showing him the thing that lay in her palm. "What is this?"

Nethtalt looked down at it and suddenly blushed a brilliant crimson. Thorongil glanced at Kelegalen who was now watching his son closely.

"Uh—I—" Nethtalt's words stumbled to a halt as Findel turned her blue eyes on him.

"Nethtalt," she said slowly, "isn't this that straw bracelet I braided outside the blacksmith's?"

Nethtalt went redder if that was at all possible and for a moment Thorongil worried that the lad would die right there. Then abruptly, the red cleared and he seemed to compose himself. Moving before his nerve left him he quickly took her hand and closed his around the bracelet.

"Findel…there—there is something I wanted to ask you—have wanted to ask you for a long time." Findel frowned for only a moment before her blue eyes grew very large and her cheeks flushed pink. "I—will you be my wife?"

Findel barely let the words tumble out of his mouth. "Yes!" she cried, and threw herself forward into his arms in a jumble of skirts and hay. Nethtalt laughed, finding himself suddenly released of quite a large burden, and embraced her tightly in return.

Thorongil smiled at Legolas who returned it with a chuckle, and both then turned to look at the guardians of the two betrothed. Neither looked like they would recover immediately, even though they had surely seen this moment coming long before hand. 

Watching the lass and lad, Thorongil's smile refused to leave his face. But when he turned his gaze to Legolas he found that the chuckle had transformed into a very knowing smile. Thorongil gave him a frown in return which only caused the elf to laugh merrily aloud. 

Thorongil determined to ignore his friend. 

The sun stained the sky and in the center of the burned and ruined village it illuminated the companions below with a its brilliant light. Elsewhere on the Wold men were locked in battle, balanced as on the tip of sword, their fate ready to sway in either direction; but in in this one place, there was absolute calm and joy.

****

TBC…


	28. Up Into Victory

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Good morrow to thee, oh faithful readers! What fine praise thou hast bestowed upon we, your humble entertainers! *Sarah shakes herself* Whoopsie, guess who had a little too much fun a the Renaissance Faire… :P Time to catch up now, but first:

EVERYBODY: A further apology! This chapter does *not* have our boys in it either *dodges rotting vegetables* WAIT, let me explain!! We are reaching the end of this fic and before we can quit, go home, and start on the next fic (yes Hannah, I'm going to work on my chapters like a good girl just as soon as I finish posting this) we must have our climactic battle scene. So. Here it is. After which you will have two lovely chapters of nothing but our boys! Will that work for ya?

FURTHERMORE: For those of you who have asked (and those of you who were perhaps curious, but didn't have time to ask) the complicated combat scenario we have unleashed consists of the following people: in the northern fort (Medui) we have Gandalf and Captain Eorwine against General Fuinor; in the southern fort (Ladin) we have King Thengel and Marshal Bronweg against King Harnwe. Sorry if we befuddled you all! ;)

I'm gonna do something else unprecedented now: Move the responses to the end of the chapter. With two batches of them there's just no room up here! :D

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Thorongil

By Sarah and Hannah (Siri)

(disclaimers, explanations, and summaries 

available at the top of chapter 1)

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Chapter 28 

Up Into Victory

The king of the Haradrim gave a satisfied nod as his men reached Ladin's wall tops. Already they were making swift work of the defenders there, and even when they were not able to actively wrest the wall from the Rohirrim, there were quite effectually keeping the archers distracted. Whatever else they managed was a mere bonus.

Giving the signal to advance, Harnwe goaded his own mûmak towards the fort. The beast was young yet — the reason why Harnwe had chosen him to begin with — and it turned quickly at its master's bidding. Halting the animal, the king waited until all the others had been arranged before giving the second and final signal.

From the sides of the platforms upon the backs of the mûmakil, there came sliding out wooden ramps. One end remained anchored to the war beast, the other rested on the parapet, hooked once more into the stones. Even as they set down, the first of the ladders began to collapse past them, the men on them screaming and clawing at the air as the plummeted to their deaths. Mindful of the distance to the ground, the Southrons gave a great yell and ran across the ramps to leap down upon the heads of the enemies.

Elated for a time at the fall of the ladders, the Rohirrim were slow to realize that an even greater number of soldiers were approaching. Even when they realized what was happening, they could not at first credit their eyes; it seemed for a moment that the Southrons were approaching in midair.

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A young soldier gave a cry of fear and Bronweg spun about, wondering what was upon them now. He caught one glimpse of a pair of Southron boots at eyelevel, and then one of them caught him in the jaw with a short kick and he stumbled backwards, narrowly avoiding the edge of the parapet. The marshal brought his sword, attempting through reflex alone to block the next blow, as his vision was spinning too fast to see from where it would come. The invader's spear stabbed towards his body and he brought his sword down, knocking the point wide of his chest so that it passed under his arm without touching him. Instead of withdrawing the weapon and stabbing afresh, the Southron swung the shaft to the side, slamming it into Bronweg's chest crossways and throwing him down. Thengel caught up an abandoned spear and threw it, accurately piercing the Southron through a jagged hole in his chain mail. Carried backwards by the unexpected fury of the throw, the soldier fell off the ramparts to the ground below.

Bronweg rolled aside and got quickly to his feet again in time to greet a second Southron just coming off the ramp. This time his vision was clear and the man went down before he had fairly got his feet under him.

But there were far too many crossing onto the walls at once now. The few Rohirrim remaining were hemmed in on all sides, fighting desperately for mere survival. Even as large numbers of the Haradrim were swept from the wall top, others ran across the makeshift bridges to take their place. Several times an archer would take a wild shot towards the mûmakil, but very few reached their targets, and very few of the archers survived their momentary lapse in concentration.

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Harnwe watched his progress with satisfaction. Already he could make out that the number of his own men on the wall were beginning to exceed the number of the defenders. Even without the catapults, it was almost too easy. Underneath him his mûmak shifted uneasily, it's long trunk twitching as it shied, snake-like, away from the carrion beneath it's feet. The king frowned as he calmed the beast; the Haradrim made a practice of regularly exposing their animals to blood when they were still young, thus dulling the animals' reactions before they were ever brought near a true battle; had this one been neglected? But soon the animal calmed and moved forward under his direction once more and he relaxed. Its dark sides pressed between the men still on the ground like a ship moving down a current.

"Sire," a captain at his elbow murmured, "we have nearly taken the walls, but the defenders are firing at us from within and we are too high up to rush them."

"Distract them. Set fire to the buildings inside the fort's walls," Harnwe ordered and the man bowed and went to pass the command on. The king spared a glance for his new kingdom and wondered briefly if such an easy victory could possibly be considered worth acclaim; but such thoughts, like those concerning his uneasy war beast, did not occupy him long.

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Thick as red ants, the Southrons crowded about Bronweg, forcing him backwards down the steps. From beneath him the Rohirrim archers were firing upwards at the enemy on the wall top, and he hugged the stairs to avoid being hit by friendly arrows. Ladin seemed to sag beneath the onslaught. A large Southron, bolder than the rest, made a run down the stairs, a torch in hand. Swinging it in wide arcs that left smoke trails in the air, he thrust it into the chests of the defenders who stood in his way, setting their clothing alight. Bronweg, trapped on the edge with no way to avoid a collision with the enemy soldier, rolled off the stair case completely, landing hard in the courtyard below.

"Look to the stairs!" the marshal called desperately, pointing towards the danger, but too late. There was a last roar from the Southron as a Rohirrim spear found him finally, a clatter as he threw the torch, and then a whoosh of flame as the roof of the stable caught fire. The Rohirrim archers who had taken cover behind the building looked up in alarm as three more torches — these thrown from the wall instead — landed and spread their destruction. From within the building came the terrified shrieks of the horses as the roof over their stalls became an inferno, swiftly burning through the dry wood and spilling smoke in about them.

Indistinct cries filtered through the noise of battle on the wall top as some men called for the horses to be released, and others called for water, and still others shouted the alarm that the barracks building had caught fire as well. In the confusion archers left their posts and ran for the well, and refugees from outside the walls — sheltered within the fort as those in Medui had been — ran mistakenly into the fray, crying out in fear.

Torn in several directions at once, Bronweg felt his head spinning wildly, distorting the scene about him as he tried desperately to sort out the chaos. Grabbing the elbow of a passing archer, the marshal practically threw him back towards the wall, jabbing a finger upwards. The archer looked up in bewilderment, and then his eyes widened in a horrible shock and he collapsed heavily, his bow falling from his hand. Blood stained Bronweg's chain mail as he caught the soldier under the arms. Shifting his grip, trying automatically not to jostle the handle of the knife in the young man's abdomen, Bronweg shouted again the warning — the enemy were pouring in — but his cry went unheard.

"Fire," the wounded soldier gasped, his face white with pain. "Wood — ramps."

In quick response, Bronweg's head swung upward, his dirty hair slapping his face with the movement, and called towards the last remnants of the Rohirrim on the walls, "Light the ramps!"

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Thengel could not trace the origin of the words — perhaps it had been only his own thought — but he acted promptly. Turning his spear crossways to his body, he shoved forward, momentarily gaining a clear space in front of the Southron ramp. Leaning out precariously, his leg throbbing but temporarily forgotten, he thrust the spear shaft between the legs of another torch bearing Southron, tripping the man up before he could cross. The torch fell with a thud to the planks of the ramp — planks which were as dry as the buildings. In another minute, the flames had spread greedily, devouring in both directions until the Southrons were trapped upon the back of the mûmak, and all that remained attached to the wall were the iron anchoring hooks, sunk into the stone as the ladders had been.

No further Southrons could now replace those being hewn down on Thengel's end of the wall, and farther down other ramps were bursting into flame. Behind them no further help was coming from the archers, but with a dogged determination that had long since replaced glorious bravery, the Rohirrim held their ground and began to cast the invaders from Ladin's walls.

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When the second wave of arrows came from Medui, Fuinor expected them to also be aimed at his soldiers. Thus for a moment he stared in confusion, wondering if the fools really thought they could do damage to his war beasts. Again and again the Rohirrim bows sang, punctuated occasionally by a cry as an archer fell, pierced by a well thrown spear; or an agonized scream from the ground when a better-aimed shot struck one of the Haradrim.

As Fuinor knew they would, most of the arrows struck the mûmakil, but bounced off, and the few that found a softer target could not possibly do them serious harm. He stroked his beard and his eyes narrowed as he sat back.

The eastern wall of Medui gave another groan as the mûmakil strained at their chains.

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As the wall trembled beneath his feet, a single Rohirrim soldier, formerly a farmer by trade, lifted his arrow nervously. His palms were slick with sweat and his mind was full of racing thoughts. The last time he had attempted any sort of shooting had been when Nethtalt and Thorongil had set up a practice range some time before. He winced, even in the midst of battle, as he recalled how he had nearly slain Thorongil quite by accident with a poorly aimed shot. Now his arrow was much more deadly, and he could not afford such a mistake.

Pulling back, he aimed straight ahead for one of the lumbering mûmakil, and felt that surely this target was within his reach… Just as he was about to let go, however, his hand slipped. The arrow flew to the side once more, completely missing all the creatures pulling at the walls and speeding towards a different beast standing alone.

The soldier stifled a moan as he drew another arrow. Would this clumsiness never leave him?

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Fuinor watched the dust beginning to sift down from between the stones and waited eagerly for a sign of their complete collapse. So intent was he, that he did not see a stray shot flying in his direction.

The arrow caught him in the stomach, throwing him back from his seat and in amongst the other soldiers on the platform. For a moment, he was too winded to cry out, and then a strange feeling seemed to wash all through him. Beside him he was faintly aware of one of his lieutenants trying to remove the shaft, but it was too late.

Only a little later, Fuinor's mouth sagged slightly open and a slow trickle of blood dripped down his chin.

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It took some time for the overseer to realize there was something amiss with his mûmak. At first he was sure that the creature was merely tired, and then it began to sway, a low rumbling emanating from it's panting mouth. Shouting and cajoling, the Southron drove it forward anyway, watching in puzzlement as it strained in its chains. There seemed to be something dark dripping down it's lower tusks, spattering on the bleached winter grass of the plains. Was the creature ill?

There was a sudden pitching of the floor beneath the Southron's feet and he staggered to the side, just catching another one of the men before he was thrown off the edge. There was a horrible, gurgling trumpet from the beast as it stumbled, and then it's knees buckled beneath it and it dropped to the ground.

The earth seemed to shake at the impact, and then shook again as another of the monstrous creatures fell. Southrons screamed and ran as their own war beasts fell, like towers of stone, and crushed them in the ruins.

On the wall top, the Rohirrim felt the wall cease it's heaving, but were too tired to make a sound. Doggedly, they continued on, firing shot after shot at any Southron who attempted to approach the walls. Caked onto the tip of every arrow was a white, pasty substance. Normally diluted heavily for the sake of rats, so that horses could not die from it, this material was taken directly from the root.

Eorwine took a few men down to one of the side gates to prevent an entrance by several more desperate Southrons. Hacking at the wood, they had managed to damage the hinge pins and now were trying to slip past the Rohirrim and perhaps unlatch the main gate. In such a narrow opening, it was easy for Eorwine's soldiers to hold them back, though for a short while the fray was hot indeed.

Eorwine dispatched the last with a sword thrust, and only just sidestepped his enemy's final blow before it clove his unprotected head in two. He had lost his helmet hours ago and had not had time to find another. A shockingly searing pain spread all across his head, but he ignored it as he shoved the gate to.

"Stay here and hold it!" he told the soldiers sharply, running back towards the wall and only putting his hand to the side of his head when he was once more back at the wizard's side. Blood was streaming down the side of his neck and as he felt about, he realized half his ear was gone.

Gandalf had run out of stones and had turned to pieces of the parapet for his strange missiles, but now he looked up and demanded in a way that sounded irritated, "Where have you been?"

"Down by the southern gate," Eorwine told him, with equal shortness, struggling to staunch the bleeding.

Deftly the wizard took the cloth and bound it tightly about the captain's head, shaking his head in amazement, "You are fortunate not to be dead."

"Aye," Eorwine growled, "but there are still plenty of hours left in this day."

Gandalf tilted his head briefly towards the battlefield, "Actually, I would say the day is almost over."

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Harnwe glared in disgust at himself for having miscalculated so badly. His men within were faltering and dying in numbers that could never have been had they met the Rohirrim in a pitched battle upon the plains of Harad. 

He realized now that he did not have as many alternative plans as he had first thought. 

He realized that of the ones he had used, Mavranor had been the partial author, and she was far away in the captured fort, enjoying her revenge. 

That the underling who was even now approaching him had some form of one of the strange illnesses the Haradrim had encountered in the northern lands, and who knew how many of the others were thus afflicted?

"Sire, the defenders are driving us back and we cannot send in more men without obtaining some form of bridge!" the soldier coughed in a stifled way, and looked about worriedly. No man standing beside King Harnwe ought to have any cause for worry!

Harnwe drew out his scimitar, "*We* shall go!"

"But Sire," the soldier protested, though he stood a little straighter, "there is too much danger!"

"You dare to speak to your king thus!" Harnwe roared, his eyes flashing. "Nothing may stand before us; they will be as chaff beneath our blade! Now come."

Harnwe guided the mûmak closer to the wall and the planks of the new ramp were drenched, making it impervious to flame. There was a clinking thud as the ramp dropped, and then a curiously altered battle yell, used only by the Southron king's personal honor guard. They charged across first, slaying two of the Rohirrim who attempted to dislodge the ramp and hinder their coming. As the second defender fell, the guard parted to allow their king entrance, and he raised his scimitar in a glittering salute. Down in the courtyard, his soldiers looked up from where they fought, and along the wall a wild yell rose up in approval.

Charging forward, his guard defending his back on the narrow space, the king clove through a staggering archer's helm, sending him plunging out over the wall to land in the bloodied grass below. The mûmak shifted uneasily as the body passed close to its small red eye.

Another archer the king slew, and laughed as his men rallied to him, their efforts redoubling. Behind him three of his guards had been slain by archers from within, who had by now returned to their posts, but this was nothing to Harnwe. He was a mighty king once more, no longer cowed by rivals or circumstances. Swiping his scimitar outwards again, he felt a shiver go up his arm as his opponent met it with a surprisingly strong parry. Looping the blade down in a curve, he frowned as it was blocked again, and then blocked again at head height as he made a swipe for the Rohirrim's neck. For a soldier long past his youth, filthy, and obviously wounded, this one seemed to know his work in an unnerving way. Again and again there came the rapid *clank* *sssshk* *clank* as the blades scraped jarringly across one another, curved scimitar tangling with straight sword. Then, even as the Harnwe raised his arms for a massive strike which, in his rage, ought to have cloven sword, helm, and scull, he felt a white hot pain stab through his chest. He looked down to where the Rohirrim's spear had stabbed him, knowing the wound was not mortal, yet marveling that it had occurred at all. Was he not Harnwe? King of a mighty people? His euphoria of but a few moments before threatened to abandon him. And in his brief moment of hesitance, the Rohirrim lunged at him again, jerking the spear free and stabbing towards his leg.

With a single stroke, Harnwe hewed the shaft in two before it could reach him, but now his breath began to catch, causing him to gasp. The spear, while unable to puncture his chain mail, had been strong enough to break several ribs. Now the bones pressed in upon his lungs — keeping them from expanding as his body demanded air — weighted ever down by the heavy gold finery. Stumbling even as he tried to withdraw without sign of weakness, Harnwe gestured to his men to remove the enemy soldier. The world shifted oddly about him and he realized that if he were to lose consciousness, all morale would be lost. Pulling his cloak about him to make his departure unobtrusive, he eased back onto the ramp.

Dizzy and deprived of air, he did not see that the mûmak had shifted instead of remaining where he had placed it. He did not see where the hooks had pulled free of the weathered stones of Ladin. He saw only sky as the ramp tumbled out from under him, and sky still as he fell, head first, towards the ground.

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Thengel, preoccupied with the remainder of Harnwe's personal guard, did not notice the retreat his enemy until one of the guardsmen let out a stifled cry. His filthy clothing clung to him as he looked up — the garments long since deprived of any emblem that would have identified him as a king to the Haradrim. And almost too suddenly for comprehension, Thengel saw the magnificently clad figure of the Southron king plummet like a fiery comet to his death. Eerily, Thengel felt the impact — even though, with the noise of battle still in the air, he could not possibly have heard it. 

It was not then born in upon him that the turning point in the battle had come. Not until several hours later. Not until most of the Southrons within the walls had perished and until those without had discovered with horror the body of their lord did the realization come home. When it finally did, Thengel rested his bloody sword point down in the stones and sagged over it like one old beyond count of years.

It was there Bronweg found him, and there was silence between them for a long time. "The fires have been put out, sire," the marshal murmured at last.

"Good."

/ (o) \ (o) / (o) \ (o) / (o) \ (o) / (o) \ (o) / (o) \

By the time Mavranor's search was interrupted with word that the catapults had been destroyed, that Brerg had been slain just outside the walls, and that her husband was in need of aid, the news was several hours or more old. By the time she armed herself and collected together the rest of the soldiers, a dark shadow had begun to press at the corners of her mind. Impatiently, she pushed it aside, urging forward one of the few mûmakil that had been left in the camp; Harnwe was the greatest of all the Southron kings, and when she was once more at his side, he could not help but prevail!

But the shadow only increased as she drew closer. She saw bloodied soldiers fleeing back towards the camp from the direction of both the Rohirrim forts. She saw a wounded mûmak, pierced with arrows, come over the hill and then collapse suddenly and inexplicably, its huge body lifeless as stone. And when at last she arrived at the southern fort, she froze as still as a statue.

Above a dark mûmak plodding her way — one bearing the trappings that her husband's war beast always wore — there stretched a frame for a banner. But the banner was gone.

An emptiness, like plunging into an abyss, filled her.

The banner was gone.

Her husband was dead.

TBC…

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*sort of sniff* Poor Mavranor. :(

Now for chapter 26:

Belothien: Thanks! And we thought it was great you realized it was Duurben at that point!! No weird looks from here, I can tell ya; especially not since you called him sweet. :D *chuckles* That cat picture actually doesn't seem too far off, except that I expect Aragorn wound up more damaged than the average cat would have. ;) Thanks for sticking around too!

Lil'layah: Yeah, well, slips happen to the best of us. ;) As for the name 'Aragorn', there's nothing to say that he's *the* Aragorn, so he's probably pretty safe. Now if Legolas had yelled, "Aragorn son of Arathorn heir of Isildur look out behind you!!" we'd be in serious trouble. :P

None: Thank you so much! Yep, your boys are safe. Until the next fic, that is… :D

Mouse: *sighs in relief and calls over her shoulder* Don't bother packing anymore, Hannah, Mouse is keeping Strider at home! *turns back cheerfully* And thank you so much for the eggs! A little worse for being taken hostage, but not too bad. ;D

saber crazy: So you're seeing X-Men 2, eh? Tell us what you think; we're hoping to see it soon. :D Alas for Mavranor, we can only protect her when she is an active part of our plot. After that, well… *glances significantly at rampaging horde of readers* Only I'm afraid Galmod isn't in all technicality an OC (there's a hint for ya), so he's immune to BBQing. :P As for Duurben: I don't think he'd have any reason to know or make the connection that this particular 'Aragorn' is 'Aragorn II, son of Arathorn, heir of Isildur'. Too bad, but consider this: Duurben's not nearly old enough to be dead when Aragorn finally becomes king, so eventually, he *will* find out. ;)

Saige: *hands Nethtalt ice-pack* Happy you liked it, Saige! ;D

Maranwe: Glad you liked Duurben's reentry there! I'm not quite sure what you're asking about Thorongil and his adrenaline/survival deal, but there's a good chance we flubbed something in there. :) I think that chapter was a page longer than usual, but no more. We're relieved the fic-comparison was favorable! ;) I could be mean and quote the words of Aslan, "I call *all* times 'soon'.", but I wouldn't have anything like the same meaning, so: 'soon' is 'whenever I manage to post in the _morning _instead of the _afternoon _of the posting day'. ;D 

Lina: *duct tapes Lina's mouth shut* Watch your almost-language! ;D LOL! Yeah, Legolas, you've got it - that's Lina! A walking-talking-screaming-slaying distraction. Course, the Southrons might want to be careful about chasing her like that… :P *hands Findel a fire proof jacket, a bullet proof vest, and a shield* Just in case Lina's respect for her restraining crew's nationality doesn't hold up. And as for Koth: who cares so long as he winds up dead? ;D

Eomer: *attempting to be sensitive, Sarah hides any trace of might-have-been laughter at the Rohirrim in ponchos and armor* Sorry to do that to you guys, really! *hands out more hankies, chocolate, teddy bears, and other comfort items* :}

Gwyn: Thanks! Yep, Thorry is safe. For this fic, anyway… *evil laughter quickly stifled* ;D

Anarril: Nope, no one has guessed! Or if they have, they haven't mentioned their guess. And yeah, that is a bit of an advantage, but not if you aren't the type who notices names anyway. :) Happy Birthday, Merry Walking, and Good Luck on the Softball Game!! :D *blows party horn, hands out water bottle, and waves pennant*

w: Yeah, Hannah actually mentioned when I posted that chapter that she'd never really liked that aspect of their escape. Still, as you said (and I can concur because *I* didn't write that part!): she writes so well, even slight departures from reality are easily excused. :D Now then: Thankyouthankyou on Duurben's entrance, all those lines you took the time to quote, Harnwe's rage (especially the angle of it), and Thorongil and Legolas!!! Oh yes, and the praise for our dialogue was prized indeed! *rummages around in pocket for 'Favored Reader Chocolate'* And yeah, I cracked up over the 'how high we drop you' line as well. *grins at Hannah* She's brilliant _and _funny! ;D 

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And now for chapter 27: 

Gwyn: Thanks! Glad you liked the proposal! And as for building up for a new one: yes and no. We're currently beginning work on our next fic 'Darkest Night', but it takes place _before_ Thorongil. We do have another outline for one that comes _after_ Thorongil, but whether or not we'll write it remains to be decided… ;)

Belothien: *bows and grins* Thanks so much! We were so pleased that our little couple managed to hit the right note there. :) Thanks also on Gandalf (I was rather fond of that line), and our battles! Glad they're understandable now. :D We only ever post prewritten stuff for the very reason that WIPs take so long to update, and sometimes wind up abandoned all together which is _maddening beyond all expression!!!_ *pants a few minutes* Anyway, pleased you approve of our every-other-day schedule! :D

Maranwe: Hope that little note at the top of the chapter helped you out a bit with all the battling characters… Those sorts of scenes are very hard to describe coherently sometimes. :P Hope Jeopardy practice went well! LOL! ;) Also hope your story is still going well! I have the exact same problem with sudden inspirations and no notepads on hand… *sigh* And yeah, you are a little hyper, aren't ya? *wonders what did it: the writing, the reading, the biking, or the Gatorade* I'm sure Aragorn will survive your fic: he's survived almost everyone else's! *glares at Chloe* ALMOST, anyway. Thanks so much! :)

None: No problem and thanks! :D

Saige: If you mean 'will the battle ever end', it just did! If you mean 'will the fic ever end', it will in two more chapters! And thank you on behalf of our cute couple. ;D

Mouse: Thanx on our chaos and our cuteness; we're glad you're liking it! :)

RainyDayz: Hey, we missed ya! :) *pats Rainy on shoulder and produces hanky* Aw, you missed us too? It's okay! *huggles Rainy* Technical difficulties strike us all at one time or other! Glad your still reading; we'll look forward to your response when your computer finally chooses to behave. *makes motions preparatory to booting Rainy's 'puter into submission* ;D

w: Ya know, we may have already mentioned this, but the timing of your feedback is perfect! It has quickly become the highlight of our posting day, if for no other reason than that it reassures us that more is still desired. All last-minute worries fly right out the window and up goes the post with a smile! *smiles* ;D Seriously, thank you so much!! Particularly in regards to Aldor (we're so glad you've warmed up to him), Rokhiell, Gandalf (especially that one line!), Eorwine (a pet OC of mine), Duurben (brief, but oh-so-funny!), and OUR BATTLES! Let's hope we managed to hold on to our good track record in this post… We were so glad we didn't lose you in there — POVs, OCs, and all that jazz. Sorry if we busted the momentum a bit there, but pleased you still enjoyed our long-postponed proposal (blushing Nethtalt and all)! ;) Thank you for mentioning details as well as over-all things!

*whew* There ya go! Thank y'all so much for your marvelous feedback!!

- Sarah-who-doesn't-actually-speak-with-a-southern-accent ;)


	29. Rest

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Sarah here! And thank you so much for your cheery acceptance of Thorongil and Legolas' absence! Only two chapters left, and our boys are in both. :D

Lina: *stares in shock* Lina just stifled a rant?? WHOA! :D Don't worry, though, nobody's gonna pin Harnwe's death on you. Or rather, if they did, it would be to give you some chocolate and roses, or something. :P As for Mavranor… *sigh* You two will never get along, will you? Stupid question. At least you were *trying* to be nice. Sort of.

Eomer: Thank you! Your logic was very well timed. ;)

Mouse: Thanks! And it's okay, we really don't expect you to feel much — if any — sympathy for our villains. They have, unfortunately, built too much of a bad reputation for themselves. ;)

None: Glad you liked them! Yep, your boys are back, but nope, I'm afraid Mavranor survives, if you were hoping for a last minute grizzly death. :)

Maranwe: Yup, story-writing is a queer thing, isn't it? I can't exactly recall, but I think I considered finishing off the fight more completely, and then feared I wouldn't be able to pull it off in the same style without it seeming repetitive, so I fell back on summing it up. No, I don't much care for writing battle scenes in the first place — it's true! ;P Sorry if there wasn't much of the sort of thing you like in the last one! There ought to be some humor in these last two chapters here… And of course, as I said above, much more Thorongil and Legolas! :D Worry not: Cassia can't stay away forever! Believe me, we've been longing for her return with equal fervor. ;) We have SW syndrome in so much as that we come up with an idea, and if there isn't a good place for it immediately _following _our last fic, we put it _before _it instead and don't worry over it. In this case: yeah, our next fic comes a year after Death or Despair, and about eleven years before Thorongil, so we're jumping back a bit. As for what it's about: we're including a trailer for it in the Special Features section immediately following the end of this fic! :D

Mercredi: S'okay! RL happens to us all. ;) On 24: Thanks! The movie compliment was great to hear, and the praise for Hannah's sabotage was most appreciated. ;) On 25: LOL! It's funny, we actually had several Smokey Bear-like jokes running about after that chapter was finished. Glad you liked it! And a special thanks on Stavhold. I think he probably could have survived the battle and still been free of his self-imposed burden, but sometimes even we Hollywood-ending lovers begin to wonder if too many people are surviving… On 26: We're glad you agree!! We decided prudent flight is a rather neglected branch of heroism. And Duurben thanks you for the applause! ;D On 27: We're seriously glad we didn't confuse you with all our switching back and forth like that. Thanks so much for mentioning our Rokhiell/Gandalf stuff!! You liked everything that we most wanted to get across with their interaction and involvement in the fic. :) Oh yes, and glad the ending worked for you! 'Anti-climactic' seems to be taking the fore over 'original' on the General Opinion Scale, so it's nice to hear some praise for it. On 28: *bows* SO pleased you enjoyed it! And yeah, as a rule: Hannah and I tend to favor 'irony' over 'shock' when we finally slay our villains. Not quite sure why, but there it is… A final thank you on our mûmakil, and Mavranor! Not to mention the fact that you still took the time to review the chapters individually!! *passes Mercredi large dish of chocolate* :D

Belothien: First, bizarrely coincidental but true, a story: Sarah sat down at her computer to respond to all the wonderful feedback, keeping, as she usually did, one window up with the feedback in it, and one Word document up with her responses on it. Happily, she reread Belothien's, fingers poised to respond — and suddenly came to a halt. Cat? What had either of them said about a cat? How in the world could she respond to a laughing comment about a cat when she had no clue where in Middle Earth the word 'cat' came into contact with 'Thorongil'?? So she had to go find the original feedback _and _her original response, all to say: Yeah, I know what you mean, and I love it when it comes out that I'm really _not _the only loopy person on the planet. ;D It's okay, laugh all you like at Harnwe's expense: he's dead anyway, and his end was supposed to be ironic — it's a pet villain disposal technique of ours. ;P LOL! I loved that comment of Christopher Lee's! Though I felt bad because Ian McKellin didn't make a very good effort towards passing the praise along — he seemed inclined to think that because of several of the movies Christopher Lee had been in, he wasn't deserving of respect, or something. I love Gandalf, I don't much care for Sir Ian. ;) Thank you on our battle scenes!! And of them, particularly our Eorwine/Gandalf stuff. So glad it came out right! *wipes sweat from forehead and goes to recuperate before the _next_ battle*

Anarril: Thank you! Glad you liked it; you only get one climax, after all. ;) Actually, Mavranor's done her damage for this fic and I'm sorry to say she survives. Alas! :{ Too bad on your one game, congrats on your other!! *cheers* :D

Gwyn: Wow, you're the first! We originally meant for Mavranor to be sympathetic, but then the whole thing with her brother happened, she beat Aragorn to a pulp, and we realized there probably wasn't much chance of her being THAT anymore. Glad to see there's still some compassion for the poor thing. :D

w: We seem to be doing serious damage to your sleeping patterns… *guilty look* Oh, but thank you so much! We are especially glad that we did not keep you permanently confused (big sigh of relief), and that you liked our un-clichéd Rohirrim and Eorwine! Oh yeah, and of course that you demanded more Duurben. Don't worry, he's in these last two chapters as well! ;D We're glad you managed to feel a little sorry for the Southrons; we had meant for people to feel sort of the same way for Mavranor, but she turned out just a little too nasty for even *us* to handle in the end… :P As usual, rereading your feedback so that I can respond to it is making me warm and fuzzy all over. *heads off to post and then grin idiotically at everyone for a few hours*

And here you are: chapter 29! Only one chapter after this to go and we'll have to say good-bye until the next fic. *sniffle*

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Thorongil

By Sarah and Hannah (Siri)

(disclaimers, explanations, and summaries 

available at the top of chapter 1)

/ (o) \ (o) / (o) \ (o) / (o) \ (o) / (o) \ (o) / (o) \

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Chapter 29

Rest

Legolas stood in the shadow of the gate, listening to the rough music of hand carved flutes, and other instruments. It was nothing when compared to the melodies sung in his own home, or especially in Rivendell — the unearthly beauty of elven music could never really be compared to that of mortals, no matter the musician's skill. But to Legolas, who had long ago learned in the company of a ranger the values of men as well as elves, the crooning notes spoke clearly of victory and immeasurable happiness.

Around him the Rohirrim danced and shouted, enjoying the day of rest after so much pain. It was still cold out, and few flowers were in evidence, but bonfires blazed and the women had woven wreathes out of the brown grasses. Children ran about, generally getting in the way, and mothers scolded good-naturedly and urged their husbands to gather more wood. Bandages were frequent and gaps in family circles, but the uninjured strove to make the day a happy one for all and the atmosphere remained bright because of it.

And at the center of the throng, smiling fit to rival the sun herself, was the more immediate cause of the celebration. Nodding gaily to their many guests — for indeed, the invitation had been a generously open one — the two young people yet seemed little to notice the added clamor about them. At last, with a smile, the taller of the two offered his arm to his companion, and she smiled in return, catching up the hem of her white skirt to keep it from tripping her, and followed him. There was a smattering of applause as they joined the dancing, and the musicians seemed to play louder as the woman's brilliant golden hair whipped about her.

Legolas was so absorbed in watching the gay picture before him that he did not notice the other standing silently next to him until he spoke.

"What, Legolas? Will you not dance as well?" 

"Strider!" the elf exclaimed, starting in spite of himself. "Where did you come from?"

"The dance, naturally," the captain replied innocently. "I never knew you to be such a wet blanket, my friend, as to stand as still as statue and not even speak to anyone. This is a wedding! You are intended to be bright and cheerful, and you look as solemn as a toad."

"Flattering as always," Legolas grimaced dryly. "With whom were you dancing?"

"Rokhiell, for she seemed to find no difficulty in matching my slower pace," Thorongil smiled self-deprecatingly, gesturing in a general fashion to his own numerous bandages. "However, the next dance was claimed by her husband, and so I set out to discover you. Now what is troubling you, my friend?"

"Nothing, Thorongil, truly. I am perhaps a little reluctant to mix with people who seem to distrust me, but that is all."

Thorongil cast his friend a sidelong look, "Then the fact that I must go tomorrow has nothing to do with it? As I recall you did not seem to think me fit for travel."

"I don't, but if I have not become used to you ignoring my opinions by now, I never shall. You didn't even give in to Duurben's unguarded suggestions of tying you down."

Thorongil chuckled, "It was such a new experience to have Duurben scolding me about anything that I could scarce keep from laughing, let alone take time to look contrite. He shall always be rather stiff around authority, I deem, but he has grown less closed of late, and I am more glad than I can say. It will be a fine journey home."

"Home?" Legolas asked, and there was a faint note of something beneath the syllable that was not a casual question.

Thorongil looked at his friend swiftly, "Yes, Minas Tirith." There was a pause, and then Thorongil continued almost inconsequentially, "I have often thought it odd that Dúnedain are considered to have no home. It is amusing to sit in the Prancing Pony and listen to the talk, for they all chair the same opinion. In truth, my friend, I would say I've had more than my fair share. Homes I have in abundance, all across the face of Middle Earth, and though many are dearer than others, I value them all. Wherever a place is made for me, Legolas: that is my home. And therefore Rivendell is my home, and Mirkwood, and the ground upon which we are standing now is my home as well. I have left a part of myself in each place — have devoted either time, or love, or blood to each — and have in return taken parts of them with me. I shall always feel a great empathy for the people of Rohan, as well as those of Gondor, and the elven realms, and the Shire. It is for this that I have journeyed, and when I return to my father, and to my first home, I will not be empty handed." With a smile, Thorongil rested his hand on his friend's shoulder, "I shall miss you greatly, Legolas Greenleaf."

Legolas smiled in return, reaching up to grip the man's forearm, "And I you."

Thorongil pulled him from the shelter of the gate, "Now come, you will at least give your salutations to the bride and groom. No doubt they have wondered after you and are thinking you have left early."

Willingly, Legolas allowed himself to be guided away. The young couple had finished their dance and were now sitting with several of their closest friends on the rows of straw bales that had been left for those in need of rest. They were talking gaily, and looked up when the man and elf approached.

"There you are, Legolas, we had nearly despaired of you!" Nethtalt laughed, rising to embrace the elf with all the enthusiasm that happiness brings to youth.

"Nonsense," Thorongil retorted, coming quickly to his friend's defense, "you have been far to absorbed in each other to notice anything or anybody else."

Legolas' eyebrows rose at this sudden reversal in his friend's argument.

Findel laughed, having risen in her turn, and looped her arm through her husband's, "He is right, of course. Indeed, I feel a wretched host; I wish we could ride off and escape for several hours, but I should hate to wound them all when they have done so much to give us this day."

Thalion laughed aloud at his niece's honesty, reaching up to rub beneath the bandage about his head — until Rokhiell's hand followed his and pulled his fingers gently away, linking them with her own.

"Speaking of riding off," Kelegalen added, "when will we be deprived of your company?"

"Soon, I fear," Legolas admitted. "Thorongil and Duurben, of course, intend to leave tomorrow, and I must depart soon after. I have delayed long enough and I still have a message I was to deliver."

"Surely someone else has been sent by now," Nethtalt urged, clearly not wishing to bid farewell so soon.

"Aye, that is quite likely, but I cannot leave my father to his worries. I have done so too many times in my life when I could not help it and I should prefer not to do it again when I may prevent it. I am indeed sorry to be leaving you so soon, though."

"Fathers are more important," Nethtalt agreed. "Mayhaps we will meet again?"

"Only the Valar can tell," Thorongil smiled, and shrugged fractionally. "I hope so."

They sat awhile and spoke long of many things. The rebuilding of Nannva had begun in spite of the cold weather, but it would be long before the village was again habitable. Thalion's family intended to stay close to Medui in the meanwhile. King Thengel, before he left, had ordered the rebuilding of the Tulganif and that would begin in the spring. Bronweg had reviewed certain plans for the new fort that should mend the faults of the old one.

They were beginning to talk of the cleaning of the battleground when they were interrupted by the approach of a grim looking soldier carrying under his arm a blackened boy, followed by another older man in a tall blue hat.

"Aldor?" Rokhiell gasped as the boy was set before her. "What in heaven's name have you been about?"

"Fireworks," said Duurben dryly, dusting his hands off. "He and several friends wished to see if the Gandalf's later entertainment would make the bonfire glow green if it were added to the flames."

"It is your own doing," the wizard chuckled. "Or was it not you, Kelegalen, who told him about the destruction of the catapults?"

Kelegalen smiled guiltily and tousled the boy's hair, getting soot on his hands with the motion, "I hope nothing was damaged, sir?"

Duurben's eyebrows rose, "I'm afraid the fire turned a shade of magenta, rather than green, before the firework belched smoke and exploded in their faces. But, amazingly, nobody was injured and nothing caught fire."

The wizard removed his hat and eased himself onto one of the straw bales, "As a reward for past bravery I thought it might be appropriate to come along and save the lad from, er, execution."

Aldor, silent all the while, looked both contrite and sheepish, and at these humorously merciful words he scuffed his boots in the dirt and turned red under the soot. The slayer of Southrons was all but invisible under the skin of a mischievous boy in trouble.

"I should have to consider," laughed Thalion. "Perhaps some work for the blacksmith would help relieve his curiosity concerning fire and other such dangerous elements."

"Or it might get his head blown off," retorted Duurben, smiling in spite of himself. "But I am sorry to interrupt you all."

"Duurben, for shame!" cried Findel. "You are quite one of us now, and cannot slip off so easily as that, no matter how little you enjoy talk."

The soldier inclined his head, not deeming it proper to correct the lady about his motives, but he did not seem sorry to join them either.

"What of you, Gandalf?" Kelegalen asked. "How long will you be remaining?"

"I am leaving with Legolas," the wizard replied calmly, accepting a mug of ale from a passing woman.

"Oh?" queried Thorongil and Legolas in unison. There was a general laugh.

"Might I ask when precisely you made your plans, Mithrandir, or is this a sudden decision?" Legolas' eyebrows rose.

"Not sudden at all. I am headed north and then west, so I shall accompany you as far as the Anduin. If you find there what I suspect you will find, then you should be able to complete your journey quite well on your own."

"Thank you, Gandalf," Thorongil rolled his eyes at the wizard's old habit of riddling. However, he felt his mind ease at the thought that Legolas would be safely on his way, whatever awaited him.

"Eorwine said we might keep Maerhiin and Breon," Duurben commented.

"A generous gift! I shall have to thank him, if I can find him," Thorongil replied. "Does he never rest?"

"Not usually," Kelegalen sighed wryly. "Eorwine has always been a toiler; doom-saying, but stolid. It was not commonly known, but for a time Eorwine spoke so slightingly of his own skills that Bronweg considered placing someone of more notable talent, if not so much experience, in the post. I think he is glad now that he did not."

"Whom did he consider?" frowned Thalion, clearly wondering why he had not heard.

"He asked me, but I told him I did not wish to be permanently tied to the fort unless no other possibility presented itself." Kelegalen shifted a little, a bare sign of hesitation, "It was rumored that for a time he thought of Gálmod, but I do not know the truth of it, and it seems unlikely."

A silence fell, like a pall, over the group, but none of the displeasure was leveled at Kelegalen.

"A mercy it was but a rumor," Rokhiell whispered, leaning against her husband's side.

Nethtalt was staring hard at the grass, as if by merely gazing long enough he could discern the meaning behind the greatest tragedy of the attack. Betrayal. "I suppose he has left Rohan?"

"I doubt it," Thalion shook his head. "He was always one to justify his own actions, no matter how misguided."

Thorongil rose, gazing out across the plains in the direction of the Anduin. The sun was easing towards the west and the constant breeze that seemed to flow through Rohan caught at his dark hair, nearly keeping his words from the hearing of his friends. "I am glad for this at least: that Stavhold died a conqueror. And he knew it." He turned back to face them, his eyes gray with memories of his words with Stavhold in the stable, only weeks before. "He could not forgive himself for holding back. But he could give everything he had, and he did. He died at peace with himself, with his life, and with you. Gálmod will not have such an end, you can be sure. He lived in fear and fled in dishonor; though he may justify, he will never forget. I pity him."

"So do I," Nethtalt murmured softly, and his bride tilted her head to rest on his shoulder.

"Stavhold shall not be forgotten either," Aldor said suddenly, with a sort of fierceness.

"Well spoken, lad!" Gandalf applauded approvingly. "I will grant the young folk this at least: that they are generally well suited for action, if not inclined to thought."

"A very mixed compliment, I must say," Duurben noted dryly. "As night is approaching, it might be well for you to finish with your entertainment before you grant us any further admiration, or before any other young hoodlums make off with your stores."

Another laugh seemed to lighten the mood, though Gandalf gave a mock scowl as he rose. "Young hoodlums are a danger of the trade; but very well, if you so wish it."

Findel rose, pulling new husband with her, "I do, in fact! And I should like to help, now that I am capable of enjoying your handiwork."

Torches had been lit in their sconces beside doors, and more people gathered about the bonfires than danced. Thorongil sat again, with Duurben on one side and Legolas on the other, and tilted his head towards the sky.

There was a distant spark and the sound of Findel's laughter as she darted back into Nethtalt's waiting arms, pushing her hair from her eyes. Then came a massive crackling and a flash and up soared a great silver and gold fireball. It rose higher and higher, shimmering like a comet, and then turned, seeming to gather speed as it fell back towards earth.

The Rohirrim watched it, the blaze reflected in their eyes, and Thorongil swallowed once, as if to hold onto the moment. Expectation.

An explosion. Just before it reached the level of the rooftops, it expanded outwards and curled up, forming a sparkling cocoon, and then blossoming outwards, unfurling, putting down roots in the stars. Thorongil saw it and recalled its name in the moment that it stood in glittering perfection above them. *A mallorn.* Golden leaves and silver trunk. The tree of Lothlórien.

Then the tree dissolved from its uppermost leaves downwards, showering the excited outstretched hands of the children with cool, tingling drops, like dew.

"One of his finest," Legolas murmured.

"Aye," Thorongil nodded solemnly, adding irrelevantly. "I have only ever seen mallyrn in Father's books."

The elf's last words were in his own tongue, and just loud enough for his friend to hear, "Someday I shall see them in person, Strider."

"And I shall see them with you, my friend."

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TBC…


	30. Entulesse: The Return

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Sarah here, for the last time! *snifflesnifflesob*

Lina: *ducks as a happy Rohirrim goes staggering past* Oh dear. *dodges as Thorongil, with Lina steering, goes dancing past* Oh my! *sees the Rohirrim, en masse, about to drop 100 bottles of mead from the top of a wall* Oh NO! AAAAH!! *right on Lina's cue, the mountains tumble and the sky falls* …… *Sarah suddenly falls so silent that the crickets can once more be heard* Shreep, shreep, shreep…. (that'd be the crickets, not Sarah) Lina. We have an award for you. It's called the LACE-COAT Award, and no, it has nothing to do with us giving you a jacket made out of eyelet — actually, it signifies: Largest Amount of Chaos Ever Caused On A Thread. You are a master, my dear, and we bow before your genius! Now then. No drinking, leave Aragorn alone, and don't provoke wizards: it's unhealthy! ;D

Eomer: As part of all of your bonus Hannah and I are providing cold showers, black coffee, and in the morning: sunglasses. *raises root beer bottle* Cheers.

Wellduh…: Thanks! We take pride in our Mallyrn. :)

Gwyn: Aww, thanks! Glad you liked it! :D

Asen: No, not forgotten! We just wondered what particular disaster was keeping you (Real Life strikes everyone, we know full well), and hoped it wasn't life-threatening. So glad you're back and haven't lost any limbs!! ;D Thanks on behalf of the happy couple! We had a lot of fun with that. And yeah, Gandalf is cool! :)

Saige: *hands saige a glass of water* Sorry we wore you out, but ever so glad you enjoyed it! And yeah, we're going to miss Nethtalt as well, not to mention you guys. *sniffle* 

None: Only this last chapter, so I'm afraid we don't have time to spring anything else on them! And thank you for the respect, but this time we have decided to be good, cannon-abiding citizens and not have Legolas visit Lorien before FOTR. As it winds up turning out, Aragorn will be seeing it alone before he sees it with Legolas, but they *will* wind up seeing it together. :D

Maranwe: *doses out some Aspirin* For what's left of the headache! Glad that chapter worked a bit better for you! Hopefully this one will as well. ;) 'Tis a special compliment that you like our Gandalf, in spite of not much caring for Gandalf! Thanks! And thank you also on our happily married couple! :D Don't worry, *I'm* not as forgiving as they are either. *considers hunting Galmod down, even if he *is* technically Tolkien's* I believe at the end of our trailer we put our time estimate down on summer/fall… We'd choose a specific month like we did last time, but we have a very busy summer ahead and we decided it was better to be vague than to risk overshooting our deadline. Sorry about that, but if it makes you feel better, we will be e-mailing an alert to all our old readers when we start posting! :) And ours are the _only ones you've ever reviewed??_ Whoa. We're honored!

saber crazy: LOL! Yes, Duurben has joined! Should we get him a little badge? ;D Yes, only one chapter left, no, the good ones never last (Stars of Harad… sniff!), yes, we're already at work on a new one, and no— wait, um, could you define 'forever'? Okay, I'm kidding, but the most I can tell you is that we are *shooting for* summer/fall and that we'll e-mail you when we start posting! Until then, there's a trailer in Special Features. :) *dodges as saber goes after Galmod with a flamethrower* Sigh. And we're hoping to go see X2 soon, so I'm glad to hear it's good! As for Duurban: the real question is not 'how many Aragorn's are there in Middle Earth?', but 'how many people know that the heir of Isildur's name is "Aragorn" in the first place?' ;D

Mouse: *accepts jelly bean* Thank you so much! And so glad you liked our little ending party! :D

Hiro-tyre: My condolences to your brother, computer-hog though he may be. ;D And a very great thank you from Hannah and I on your review! Quality can easily equal quantity in these situations, and yours exceeded it, so you needn't worry about not having time to post more regularly. I'm sorry if I couldn't help laughing over the muddled state of our story as you began to see it! I think it was the Findel as a man thing that did me in… ;) On Galmod: I see your point. What we were trying to put across about Galmod was that he was very self-centered — that it was pride that drove him to work so hard at archery, and pride also that caused him to fight and to be jealous of Legolas. One thing we did not cover very well about him, though, was his fear of the unknown (also a contributor to his dislike of Legolas), and 'death' would have gone on that list. When it became clear that he was caught up in a lost cause, the combined forces of his selfishness and his fear were supposed to be what drove him from the field, but as I said: we didn't make as big an issue of his fear as we probably ought to have done, and that point likely got lost in the shuffle. :) *starts to laugh so hard she has to stop typing for a while* Okay, that run-on fight description of yours was *hilarious*! Hannah and I cracked up! We are equal parts thrilled and relieved that we hit the middle line in the battle scenes… we've read enough of the sorts you describe to seriously want to avoid both pitfalls! And I don't think I'll be reading Crossroads of Twilight. ;D Thank you so much on our climax/recovery!! Such things as that come of thoroughly enjoying those portions of other stories we've read. :D _…and after that you will write more, and I will review more._ Sounds good to us! *smiles brightly and heads off to write more*

Anarril: Yeah, that was kind of intended… Have you ever met a boy who *wasn't* fascinated with fireworks, though? ;D There may be a sequel to it somewhere down the road, but I'm not quite sure when… If we do ever write one, there's a good chance Duurben will be in it, but not our Rohan cast. *sniffle* Still, nothing is concrete yet, and we're currently involved in a completely different fic. :) Good eye! 'Findel' is the same elvish word that's in Glorfindel's name, and 'green' is indeed part of Kelegalen's name as well! The specific definitions are in Special Features. :D Thanks so much!

w: Once again: thank you so much! On our flow especially, since that is something that is hard to judge in one's own writing. So is humor, come to think of it… ;) The 'home' conversation just sort of came up, really. It was something we'd been thinking about, and Legolas' hesitant reaction ('home?') came more from us than it did from him. Fortunately, Thorongil had the answers, even if we didn't. ;) I'm glad you liked my firework! (yes, I'll go ahead and claim something from this fic) I absolutely loved the party scenes in the movie and wanted to get some of that in here! And you even liked Findel's giggle? Wow. That's great! :D Last of all: yes, we're going to miss Duurben too! *sniffle* There may be at some future date a fic with him in it again, but for now we just don't know. I think what we're hoping the most is that we don't wind up duplicating him in the next fic… ;P We'll miss ya!

And now *sob* the last chapter… *blows nose LOUDLY* Hwwoooonk!!

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Thorongil

By Sarah and Hannah (Siri)

(disclaimers, explanations, and summaries 

available at the top of chapter 1)

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Chapter 30

Entulesse: The Return

Mavranor's litter had been brought to her when her people had first prepared to set out. She had gazed long at it, remembering her coming journey on the soft cushions behind the scarlet curtains. Then she had been queen of a mighty people; a people bent on conquest and new lands. No longer. Queen she was still, but not the soft being she felt she had been then. Hard she was inside, and chill as she gazed ahead at the road she had still to take. The road south and farther away. No more desire was left in her for desperate fights for foreign lands and other pointless endeavors. Had she any will left it was only for revenge — to take back a little of what had been taken from her. Gwanur first and then Harnwe. At the thought of her husband's name, the Southron queen mourned afresh, but silently and her eyes were dry.

But no. Her army was almost completely decimated. There was nothing left with which to take revenge. Nothing left at all. And so she had taken her seat, not in her litter, but upon the back of one of the remaining mûmakil. There was no one to care for her complexion anymore, so she sat, her face turned full into the harsh wind, and gave the order to march forward.

Now, days upon days later, they were again leaving Mordor behind. Ahead lay their old lands, and if Muindor had faired as badly in his battle against Gondor as she had heard, she would still be able to take back a portion of the lands that had once been freely hers. Already lines had formed around dark eyes that had once been bright and beautiful. Inside her mind remained alert and quick, but her heart had perished. There was no gathering it back.

"Harnwe," she whispered one last time, recalling that it had been she who had brought them to this place… But there was no good in speaking. Never again would she say his name. Empty words. Empty thoughts. And endless time to dwell on both.

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Thengel rested his hand against his horse's neck, feeling the weariness of the creature. "Soon," he assured his mount in an undertone, "soon."

His leg was sore and his men were tired as well, but he knew they would wish to rest in their own houses, and not on yet another strip of native, yet unfamiliar land. Tonight they would be home.

The setting sun was a brilliant orange and it stained the land beneath their feet as they at last came in sight of the golden halls of Edoras. The burnished pillars reflected the light, making it seem as thought the building were on fire, and lanterns were being lit amongst the houses around the hill. At the encircling wall could be seen the faint glitter of the sentries' armor. Above the gate there snapped the familiar banner: deep green with a prancing white horse.

The men assembled at the gates, there to be dismissed by their captains and to return to their homes. Thengel himself rode on through the streets, his personal guards alone following him. As he passed, women rushed from their houses, so eager at the news that their husbands and sons had returned that they nearly forgot to show the proper respect for their king. Thengel barely noticed them at all. He had eyes for only one woman at that moment.

As he entered the courtyard outside his halls, he caught sight of someone hurrying down the great stone steps. He dismounted hurriedly, wincing only slightly, and handing his reigns to the nearest soldier. A moment later Morwen had reached him, her arms twining about his neck as he kissed her. In that instant, he was home.

"How faired you in my absence, dearest heart?" he asked.

"Very well, my lord. Your son arrived from the western border only yesterday," she smiled through wet eyes at his look of surprise.

"So soon?"

"He is truly his father's son! The enemy was routed in but half the time we expected, and he is quite well. Theodwyn has been pleased beyond all forms of expression."

"I am sure of it," Thengel smiled as he guided his wife back up the steps. They reached the door as the last sliver of sun disappeared behind the hills, leaving only a pink glow in the west.

He entered the hall and found his children waiting. Théoden, taller than his father remembered, and stronger looking, both in body and in mind. Taetho, her hair neat and her expression unutterably relieved. Theodwyn, dancing around his feet like a sprite, crowing excitedly over his return and begging to be held, even as she moved far too fast for him to catch her.

He removed his cloak and laid it aside, and the wooden door closed behind him.

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'Well, here we are, just the four of us that started out together,' said Merry. 'We have left all the rest behind, one after another. It seems almost like a dream that has slowly faded.'

'Not to me,' said Frodo. 'To me it feels more like falling asleep again.'

— The Return of The King

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Green sunlight filtered through the trees and the leaves rustled with the same tone as the rushing river just out of sight. Gandalf was humming a song under his breath, his staff moving in time to the rhythm of the tune, and Legolas allowed himself to relax into a steady walk. His hair was neatly braided once again, and though his clothing was still such garments as he had managed to borrow from Thorongil and Nethtalt, he barely noticed its poor design any longer.

A few minutes later, the wizard came suddenly to a halt, "Here is where I leave you, Prince Legolas."

The elf blinked, glancing up in surprise, "Leave?"

"I told you we should part at the Anduin, and that is not the Brandywine you hear." The wizard tipped his hat with a smile, "Farewell wherever you fare."

Legolas brought his palm to his shoulder and inclined his head in response, still dazed somewhat by the wizard's abrupt announcement. It was not until Gandalf had nearly passed out of sight between the trees that he found his tongue.

"Mithrandir, when will I speak with you again?"

"When next you see me, of course!" the wizard called back, and was gone.

For a moment there was silence as the elf paused to ponder the characteristic answer. It felt strangely like he was progressing back in time, slowly losing the people who had gathered about him on his journey. Now all who remained were those who had set out originally. Or at least, one of them.

With a sigh, Legolas turned towards the lonely road ahead and then froze. A faint sound came to him from the bushes and he crouched low, wondering if this area was truly as full of wargs as it seemed, or if he merely attracted them for some strange reason. When the creature spoke, he only barely kept himself from tumbling into the leaves as he dropped his arrow.

"You ought to have a physician examine your ears, Trelan."

"I *heard* him!" came the short reply, followed soon after by the appearance of a short elf. He glared over his shoulder at his taller companion and did not watch his footing in consequence. Thrusting out his bow Legolas caught the elf across the shins, tripping him up.

With a startled cry Trelan fell, but even as he landed practically on top of his 'attacker', he had drawn his knife to defend himself. Twisting about, the elf planted his knee in Legolas' stomach and brought the knife to his throat. "What are you about, you—" Trelan started to demand, noting only the clothing at first, and then caught the raised eyebrows of his prince above the sharp blade in his hand. "Legolas!"

The taller elf cleared the bushes, took in the scene, and sighed, "Trelan, we were to *find* him, not *finish* him. I told you your hearing was bad."

Trelan had backed up hastily, offering his hand to Legolas even as he retorted, "Well, I was right, Raniean. He *is* here — albeit oddly dressed."

"That I am, and what are you doing here?" Legolas asked, brushing himself off calmly.

Raniean smiled, relieved to see his prince looking so well, "Searching for you, naturally. You don't honestly think that your father would simply accept your disappearance without another thought, did you? Let alone Trelan and myself."

"It's happened so often, I wouldn't be surprised."

Trelan perched on a stump and shrugged, "Unfortunately, you can no longer blame these things on Strider."

Legolas flashed the elf a wicked grin, "Oh, perhaps I can…"

"What?" Raniean demanded.

Legolas laughed, but waved him off, "I'll explain later. But I wonder that you both left your company at the same time. Were you truly that worried?"

"Yes, if you must know, but it was to have been only Trelan originally." Here Raniean jabbed the shorter elf in the ribs, his lips quirking, "Then I reminded the king that anything strong enough to detain you for so long would be more than capable of squishing Trelan in one step, and, well…"

Trelan glared darkly at his companion, dodging away from the playful nudge and looking offended to the last degree, "If you continue on, Ran, I will have to give a complete account of what became of your bedroll."

Legolas chuckled and touched his arm, "Peace, my friend. I would fain have both your company on the way home, and if you kill each other now, I fear it will be quite impossible. Not," he added slyly, "that I would mind hearing what became of the bedroll."

Trelan brightened considerably, quite eclipsing his friend's frown, and said, "Well, to be fair to poor Ran ("Which you never are," Raniean muttered.), it wouldn't have happened but for one of those horribly acidic tree frogs and an owl who mistook it for a mouse. Then again, it wasn't the owl's fault that you sleep so close to the fire either."

Legolas rose and gestured to them both. "Come, we really must travel while we talk. We have a fair journey before us, and we should begin as soon as possible."

Trelan followed with alacrity, and Raniean moved to Legolas' other side. As they traveled out of hearing, the last sounds were of Legolas' laughter.

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For a time, the two men had talked of many things: Duurben's life in Ithilien, the outcome of Denethor's battle with the Southrons, and Thorongil's many mishaps while in the company of his elven friend. Now they seemed to fall into the rhythm of traveling and spoke little, merely enjoying each other's company.

It was by no means unpleasant, but Thorongil sensed that his lieutenant had something on his mind. Several times he caught the faint sounds of Duurben preparing to speak, and then faltering midway and falling back into silence. The day after they passed back into their own land, they made camp in the evening and Thorongil finally determined to draw his everlastingly taciturn friend out.

Putting steel to flint, he struck a small fire with unconscious ease, and when he looked up to see Duurben gazing hard at him, he spoke suddenly, "You might as well tell me all that is on your mind, my friend. I should prefer to be in your confidence and discuss it openly rather than have it running loose in the dark. Especially when it seems to be consuming so much of your thought."

The soldier started, "I do not think that—"

"Please do," Thorongil retorted dryly, easing back against a tree and giving his companion his full attention.

He had been prepared for Duurben to ask a thorny question, or even confess some perceived misdeed, but he was unprepared for the other man's sudden bold announcement.

"I've discovered something about you."

Thorongil tried not to look nervous as he responded, "Oh?"

Duurben's dark eyes were keen, "You are not truly a foreign adventurer here to join in our wars."

"What makes you think that?" Thorongil asked, feeling his anxiety rise, yet realizing he had no one to blame for this moment but himself.

"Your skill in the forests, your wide knowledge, and especially your familiarity with the elves — which has come out before now, though I did not at first recognize it — they all point to one very plain truth."

Thorongil braced himself.

"You are a _native _of Gondor, in every pore and fashion, and no stranger as you claim."

If Duurben had doubted his long considered guess, it was confirmed in his eyes by the very real shock on his companion's face.

"Your loyalty to this land, your strength, even your manner of speech and appearance speak of it… I am amazed that it has taken so long for anyone, especially myself, who has been with you so long, to realize what those characteristics mean! You are a Dúnedan, a Ranger of the South — such as now roam the groves of my old home in Ithilien." He paused, twisting the fastenings on his bracers between his fingers, then continued, "And if I have seemed presumptuous in finding you out, I hope you will not hold it against me. It was you who begged me to make my thoughts known to you. I will, of course, say nothing to anyone, nor will I ever mention it aloud again, even when we are alone."

"No, you had best not," Thorongil agreed, finding himself abruptly faced with the task of hiding a great many different emotions at once. "But do not fear, I am not angry with you." He paused, then added, "You are much more curious than even I ever gave you credit for, Duurben. That could be useful, if you're careful not to let it carry you away."

He smiled and Duurben looked relieved.

"Thank you, Captain Thorongil. I will keep that in mind."

//And Legolas will never believe this…//

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End

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For any of you who like to watch Special Features on DVDs, we have included our own for this story. Proceed to the next page at your own risk!! ; )


	31. Special Features

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Special Features

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Contents:

The Meanings Behind the Names

Trailer for our next fic 'Darkest Night'

Utter Drivel

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The Meanings Behind the Names

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Thorongil (eagle of the star) | We already mentioned the meaning of this one it the story, but we also wanted to make clear that this one was most definitely **Tolkien's**.

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Kelegalen (swift green) | To paraphrase what we said at the end of our last fic: This is one where you can actually imagine a mother in Rohan naming her son that way. It may be a bit of a mouthful, but it's got their nationality written all over it.

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Nethtalt (young insecure) | A good lesson to people who are giving their characters Sindarin names: NEVER use a super-specific meaning unless you're ABSOLUTELY SURE you won't be using the character a second time!!! While this name worked wonderfully for Death or Despair, it's outlived it's usefulness in this fic. Ironically, here's what we said about his name last time: "Let's just hope Nethtalt never grows up, or anything, cause if he does, he'll be in big trouble…" If only we had known... : P

Stavhold | One of the few exceptions in the whole 'the names have to *mean* something' rule when it came to our own original characters. When Siri suggested this one last time, it was just too good to leave out because of a technicality.

Duurben (somber man) | Well, he was. For the most part. ; )

Meldir (friend) | Well, he was! *sniff*

Findelglaur (golden hair) | This one took a while because we just couldn't seem to decide what sounded nice on her. After much talk, we concluded we liked Findel, but since it only meant 'hair', we ended up making it a nickname instead.

Thalion (dauntless man) | Well, he was.

Rokhiell (horse daughter) | It sounded like a nice Rohirrim name, and she was a nice Rohirrim lady.

Aldor | We don't know what Aldor means, but we were hunting in old lists of kings of Rohan, and felt it seemed logical for him to be named after one of them. It is an interesting fact that, the last attack on the Wold (by the Easterlings), before our story, had taken place during the rule of the historical Aldor's father, Brego. Meaning the original Aldor would have probably also been a boy the last time the Wold was invaded. Interesting, huh?

Harnwe (southern man) | Well, he was. 

Mavranor (eager after land) | This would have worked equally well for her husband, but 

it sounded too feminine.

Brerg (fierce) | Well, he was. (these cropped up a lot in this fic, didn't they?) We actually considered this one for Harnwe, but thought it sounded too thick.

Muindor (brother) | It was pretty much the only reason he was in the story originally: to be Harnwe's brother. What a boring life. ;P

Gwanur (brother) | Yeah, um, see above.

Koth (enemy) | Sometimes our brilliance almost frightens us... :P

Penna (slants downward) | If you've forgotten him, he was Muindor's second-in-command way at the beginning.

Taetho (tied) | Named for her favorite hobby: sewing! Note: though Tolkien mentions that Thengel had other daughters, Taetho is a character of our own invention.

Theodwyn | This one isn't ours, and we don't know what it means, but we listed it here just so we could mention (for those of you who might not know) that Theodwyn is the sister Theoden meant when he was constantly calling his nephew and niece 'sister-son' and 'sister-daughter'. She's Eowyn and Eomer's mother.

Gálmod | We don't know what this means either, but probably something like Toadbrain, or Newt-eye, or something nasty like that, since, after all, (drum roll please) **his son's name will be *Wormtongue*! **We're not kidding here. Aragorn just bumped into the dad of dear old Grima the Lying Wart and he will never know it! *giggles* Though maybe it's just as well he doesn't. EDIT: this just in: his name means **'sour tempered' **according to the Tolkien Companion. AND FOR ALL OF YOU WHO ASKED: _That's_ why we couldn't kill him in the end. :P

Baranor | In case you've forgotten him: he was the captain who was waiting to replace Thorongil on guard duty at the very beginning of this fic. It also happens that he is the father of Beregond, and the grandfather of Bergil, both of whom Pippin met in The Return of the King. And if you hadn't noticed, we had a lot of fun adding actual people (like: 'according to Tolkien' people) into this fic... It makes our story seem to *fit* somehow. ; )

Maen (skilled) | Meldir's father.

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Magor (swordsman): He was one of the Gondorian captains under Denethor, and, well, a good swordsman.

Beren (trusty man) | Um, a little more irony there: Beren was the guy in Thorongil's company that fell asleep on watch at the beginning. Hey, he reformed!

Erfiren (only human) | The messenger who lost the message to Thengel near the beginning of the fic: can you think of a better name? Thanks Chloe for your help on that one! :D

Nannva (of grassland) | Appropriate, we felt, for a village surrounded by, uh, grassland. (is anyone else noticing the singular lack of originality on some of these??)

Medui (last) | Originally Medui was supposed to be farther to the rear of the other two forts, and therefore the last fort protecting the Wold, but tactically the placement was ridiculous, so we moved it. We just didn't change the name.

Ladin (level) | This has nothing to do with terrorism, it just sounded appropriate for a fort on the plains.

Tulganif (steady front) | Wishful thinking on the part of the Rohirrim, and irony on the part of the authors.

Maerhiin (good heart), Bregol (sudden, fierce), Kollnaur (red fire), Gailloth (star flower), Silgoll (moon wise), Throssteil (whisper foot), Norleg (keen eyesight), Espalass (foaming) | Just when our brains held the closest resemblance to oatmeal, and we were thinking 'I hope I never have to name another character/place for the rest of my life', Sarah suddenly turned to Hannah and said, "Oh no, we still have to name everyone's horses!" To which announcement she fainted dead away. Well, almost... Anyway, we tried to follow the method of other horse names from the books (Lightfoot, Snowmane, Shadowfax, etc.). It's amazing how many were already used!

Breon (swift stone) | Every time we name people (or horses!), we have to have at least a couple names be jokes, and contradictions are the most fun. Yes, we're most definitely strange and proud of it! ;)

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**Trailer for 'Darkest Night' **

( **VO **= **'voice over', [sounds are bracketed])**

black [silence]

a flash of lightening [thunder crack]

a second flash, and a third

scene goes back again [eerie flute playing softly]

[male elf VO] Several thousand years ago, your ancestors turned to fight amongst themselves.

fade up of Rivendell; an elf, Glorfindel, is speaking to someone across a small table from him

[Glorfindel] In their moment of weakness, the Witch King struck...

flashes of old battle scenes between ranks of dark haired men, clad as Dunedain, fighting against seemingly endless ranks of men and orcs [men and orcs screaming]

[Glorfindel] ... he nearly carried all before him. At the last he was turned back...

the Witch King — not yet wraith, but man — looks down at his clenched hand: a dark ring is on his finger

[Glorfindel] ...he would have returned to his tower, but his men were decimated... instead he disappeared.

back to Rivendell; the camera pans to show the man Glorfindel is speaking to: it is Aragorn with Legolas standing over his shoulder.

[Aragorn] And what kept he in that tower?

[Glorfindel] (shaking his head) Perhaps only more orcs.

[Legolas] Perhaps?

black [flute music ends abruptly]

[sound of someone in the dark, gasping for breath, feet shifting in leaves]

the camera rushes in on Aragorn who whirls around to face it; his eyes go wide

[music crashes in]

Elladan and Elrohir standing back to back, a faint glow shimmering about them in the dark

flash to Legolas catching a hold of a tree branch, swinging himself up as something rushes below him

flash to Aragorn drawing his sward hurriedly

[male human VO] (frightened) How can we slay what is not flesh?

flash to orcs running through the woods shrieking battle yells

flash to close up on the last orc's hideous feet; something dark follows after it. there is a glint of claws or teeth.

flash to shot of Elrond from behind, striding out onto a balcony: his hands clench the railing

flash to a pair of hands holding an ancient black book, its cover is cracked

[Aragorn VO] This is our task!

flash to a small group of Dunedain rushing through the woods; something rushes in on them

flash to Dunedain scattering, turning about to fight, then running on

[Elrohir] We all stand together, Estel.

black

[lull in music]

[Aragorn VO] Why must it always be _my _relatives that cause so much trouble?

fade up of Legolas, shaking his head

[Legolas] It is not your fault that your ancestors quarreled.

[Aragorn] (grimacing) I was speaking of my brothers.

[music goes into one final crescendo]

flash to Legolas whirling about, his hair white against the dark trees

flash to Elladan pulling an arrow from his quiver and putting it to his bow

flash to Aragorn dropping into a crouch

flash to Elladan aiming the arrow towards the screen

flash to Elrohir leaping over a fallen log in one jump

Elladan fires the arrow and the screen sparks with lightening

[music quiets down]

Legolas, his hood drawn, is sitting at a table with his head down

A hobbit sits down next to him and leans forward confidentially, his round face frowning

[hobbit] You ought to be careful, sir: takin' up with them rangers. Dangerous folk.

[Legolas] (face unreadable) Thank you. I shall keep that in mind.

[eerie flute music picks up again]

Legolas and Aragorn standing on a hill, dense fog clouding about them until they can no longer be seen

writing appears across fog in thin, curving script: **Darkest Night**

writing is swallowed up in fog

screen fades to black with gray text: **Coming to FanFiction.net summer or fall or maybe winter 2003**

[flute music trails off into silence]

/ (o) \ (o) / (o) \ (o) / (o) \ (o) / (o) \ (o) / (o) \

****

Utter Drivel

**__**

Beware!! Hannah (Siri) was going to be gone the next day, and this is something Sarah left on her laptop late the evening before for her poor sister to find. If you know anything about the sort of nonsense the Write Sisters are famous for spouting, you will either run for your lives, or you will have gotten used to it and you will read on…

Hannah: just in case the creative juices refuse to flow on this next part, here is a bit of a starter for ya! :D …

Thengel looked down at the message from the Southrons. "Oh MAN!" he scowled, chucking the paper to Bronweg.

"What is it, sir?" Bronweg scanned the message. "Good heavens, they've taken all the helpless wittle Women and Children and Miscellaneous Badly Injured Men, not to mention our only Cute Person!"

"No," Thengel scowled, "they took my baseball glove. Shoulda known better than to trust it to Kelegalen to keep safe."

"So what should we do about it, sir?"

"Ah, I dunno. Go to Furry Feet Sports Center and get a new one, I suppose."

"No, I meant about all those people!"

"Huh?"

??????????

Kelegalen looked at the message in disbelief, "He says, 'Don't bother; it's not worth the aspirin.'"

"No!" exclaimed Thorongil and Nethtalt together — Nethtalt with a bit more of the lover-like agony than Thorongil. Duurben stood to the side, looking boring.

"Well forget that! I'm going anyway." Nethtalt grabbed up his sword and stuck his helmet on backwards in his passion.

"And I will join him!" Thorongil agreed, sheathing his dagger.

"Why?"

"Why did I sheath my dagger?"

"Well that too, but why are you going along when it's not your fight?"

"Because I always sheath my dagger when I Go To War, and because I am one of the Heroes. It's in the contract that I must get involved in all horrible messes/battles/etc. (no matter what), must fight like a combination of Jackie Chan and Robin Hood, and must not only endure torture with great show of character and without giving away anything that should be kept secret, but also survive to do it all again. As far as that goes, the 'getting involved in all messes' part is pretty easy."

There is a nonplussed silence as Duurben busily files away this newest tidbit about his captain, //But who is Jackie Chan??//

"Besides, this is just the sort of spot for something Coincidental to happen. Did you know I had the strangest dream about my best friend Unnamed-for-the-sake-of-suspense last night?"

"What was he doing?" Asked Kelegalen as the four Main Characters (meaning Nethtalt, Kelegalen, Thorongil, and Gálmod; Duurben doesn't count) set out.

"Being beat up indirectly by a bunch of female authors; same as usual."

The four men (and Duurben) took the prisoners to exchange, Gwanur the Stupid sparked a tussle, and they were forced to race in and Gallantly Rescue Everybody. They reached the camp and charged, fighting in the midst of overwhelming odds and screaming children. Nethtalt rode through the fray to Findel, who held up her arms to him. He reached back, his eyes full of relief — a relief that quickly changed to shock as he was shot in the shoulder.

"Ouch," said Thorongil sympathetically.

"Oops," said Gálmod innocently.

Gwanur the Stupid grabbed Findel and started to haul her off while she screamed, pulled hair, bit him on the ear, and called his mother a Morgul Tick. Thorongil raced after them and he and Gwanur the Stupid fought. Mavranor, waltzing onto the battle field in (of all things) a red dress, waved cheerily at her brother.

"Yoohoo!"

Gwanur the Stupid waved back. And Thorongil stabbed him. And Mavranor screamed.

"Oh, shut up," Thorongil growled as he handed the only Cute Person back to the Over-Anxious Lover.

In the background, Mavranor headed back to her tent, sulked a bit, and then made a little doll with dark hair and a sheathed dagger, doused it in a jar of sauerkraut, thwacked it with her loofa sponge, and then morbidly stabbed it a few times with the knife that had killed her brother. Cackling maniacally, of course.

Meanwhile, Findel is being dragged away, but manages to gasp out something about a tent and that Thorongil really must save what's in it. Puzzled, but knowing he's required to get involved in messes, the Hero heads over to the tent and pops in. 

"Strider?" a solitary and Coincidentally Familiar Elf chokes out, his breath raspy having been pulling double-duty without water under his own Hero contract.

Thorongil's eyes widened in shock. How could this be? Here, of all places??

"THENGEL'S BASEBALL GLOVE!!"

********************************************************************************

I know, I know, you wanted to write that scene, but I was poring over our fic, as it stands so far, and I don't think we have enough HUMOR in it!!

You're still reading. Obviously, you don't believe what I just said. Okay, I'm kidding. The whole thing up there? It was a very long joke. And it's not my fault that I wrote it! It's Chloe's fault. Oh yeah, and it's 10:30 at night. That's the only reason. Got that? THE ONLY REASON!

Stay out of trouble. If that is possible. And have fun. I know I needn't say 'do a good job on your writing' because you do so automatically. Just PLEASE, whatever you do, don't mention Morgul Ticks anywhere in your chapter!! Thank you. It's now 10:35. Must go to bed.... I'm... nodding... oooofff.... Uuyjh7huyr oddzdvvd d fdfngdrue wgsdfbfh hnjypg;nj //ltrm... WHOA, not on the keyboard! Ugh. I just escaped waking up with little squares imprinted on my forehead! GOOD NIGHT!

/ (o) \ (o) / (o) \ (o) / (o) \ (o) / (o) \ (o) / (o) \

_ ****_

And that is all! The very last bit. ;D

___________________________________________________________________________

****

Thank you all SO much for reading and responding to this little (ha ha) fic of ours!!! Your enjoyment has been equally experienced by us, and your praise has been one of the greatest motivators for us to write more! We hope to see some of you on our next thread when it begins (whenever that may be… you know us! :P), and until then we bid you a very fond farewell. :)

Namárië, mellyn nin!

— Sarah and Hannah(Siri)


End file.
